' 


■ 


I 


s 


o 


THE   HUNTER 


BY 

WATSON  DYKE 

// 


# 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

Zbc    Umtcfeerbocfeer    ipress 
1918 


Copyright,  1918 

BY 

WATSON    DYKE 


.    .   .  /.  , 
• »     »   » /  •  • 


« « «  *       •      • 


Ube  Iftnicfterbocfcer  jpress,  •fflew  Korft 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. — The  Hunter  and  Silvia     . 

PAGE 
I 

II.- 

-The  Funeral       . 

13 

III.- 

-A  Tiger  Disguised 

22 

IV.- 

-Silvia's  Chosen  Guide 

32 

V.- 

-Bill  Din  Provides 

•         42 

VI.- 

-Bill's  Good-bye  to  Silvia 

•         50 

VII.- 

-A  Halt  in  Paradise   . 

•         58 

VIII.- 

—The  Hunter  Can  Talk 

68 

IX.- 

-The  Hunter's  Surprise 

.       77 

X.- 

-Bill  and  Louis   . 

.       84 

XI.- 

—Silvia's  Letter   . 

-       90 

XII.- 

-The  Hunter  Awakes  . 

•       97 

XIII.- 

-A  Bad  World 

.     105 

XIV.- 

—Silvia's  Second  Letter 

,     116 

XV.- 

-"Try  Your  Luck"     . 

124 

XVI.- 

— Spen  Goes  Talking    . 

130 

XVII.- 

-Ari-wa-kis  in  Chicago 

140 

XVIII.- 

—Bill  Rides  in  Chicago 

146 

111 


IV 


Contents 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

XIX.- 

— Sheridan      Forestalls      Spen's 

1 

News         .... 

163 

XX.- 

-"Why  Was  I  Born?" 

.         166 

XXI.- 

—"I'm  Like  the  Foxes  " 

'         175 

XXII.- 

—"A  Hunter's  Motto" 

.         178 

XXIII.- 

—  'Why  Believe  Spen  ?  " 

I8l 

XXIV.- 

—Uncle  Dick  Is  Surprised  . 

189 

XXV.- 

—"And  Uncle  Dick  Worries" 

194 

XXVI.- 

—Silvia  Adventures 

198 

XXVII.- 

—Aunt  Louisa  Aroused 

203 

XXVIII.- 

— "  What  about  Bill  Din  ?  " 

207 

XXIX.- 

—Bill's  Blow         . 

212 

XXX.- 

— "  I've  Deceived  Him  " 

219 

XXXL- 

-"Day  No  Good  !"       . 

231 

XXXIL- 

— "  Love  Trust's  "          . 

237 

XXXIII.- 

-"Trust  Me"       . 

245 

XXXIV.- 

—Bill  and  Toad  Part  . 

248 

XXXV.- 

—"We  Can  Change  Our  Minds' 

257 

XXXVL- 

—Bill  and  Toad  Make  Up  . 

262 

XXXVIL- 

—"Bound  by  Faith"     . 

268 

XXXVIII.- 

— "  Bill  and  Anne  " 

277 

Contents  v 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXXIX. — Bill  Tells  Anne         .        .        .  287 

XL. — A  Birthday  with  Anne      .        .  295 

XLI. — Anne's  Piano       ....  304 

XLII. — Anne  Befriends  Trouble  .        .311 

XLIII. — "  The  Mismanagement  of  Man  "  319 

XLIV. — Anne  Likes  Her  Letter    .        .  324 

XLV. — Anne's  Dream     ....  328 

XLVI. — Gin-Fly  and  Whitefoot     .        .  333 

XLVIL— "See  What  I  Done  !"        .        .  339 

XLVIII. — The  Indian  and  the   Pony  Boy  344. 

XLIX. — A  Lovely  Event          .        .        .  347 

L. — The  Hunter's  Defenders  . 

LI. — Louis's  Diary 

LII. — Sheridan's  Faith 

LIII. — Paradise      .... 


356 
360 

375 

380 


.  *       .  s      J      » 



>       ,  >  1 


)  >  J      '  '        '      * 


THE  HUNTER 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  HUNTER  AND  SILVIA 

LOUIS  BUTTRESS  was  the  nobody  of  Ala- 
manca  Creek.  Whatever  his  worth  might 
be,  it  was  best  known  to  himself;  and  he,  from  his 
own  mouth,  described  his  family  as  "people  of  no 
account, ' '  who  had  lived  in  the  Midland  counties 
of  England,  and  who  had  left  their  native  place 
in  a  dire  state  of  penury. 

Everybody  believed  Louis  when  he  said  that  his 
mother  and  father  could  not  read  or  write.  Some 
said  that  Louis  was  not  much  better ;  but  he  never 
gave  them  any  opportunity  of  proving  their  belief. 

He  was  described  best  by  his  own  terse  remark : 

I'm  a  natural  sort  o'  man."     He  lived  near  the 

i 


11  T». 


The  Hunter 


<  •  • »  » .  « 


water  in  an  excuse -for  a  cabin,  which  had  cost 

*   "    *  _  t  •      *    *  **  *  • 

about  a  dollar  in  the  making,  and  he  spent  his 
whole  life  with  the  dumb  creation.  Money- 
making  had  no  pleasure  for  him  at  all;  but  the 
eyes  of  a  coon,  a  fox,  a  ground-hog,  or  a  mouse, 
had  power  to  arrest  the  whole  man. 

Louis  Buttress  was  the  poorest  and  the  happiest 
creature  in  Alamanca  Creek.  He  was  not  very 
clean  in  his  person,  but  his  mouth  opened  to  words 
which  held  no  poison. 

He  was  despised  and  considered  as  beneath 
notice;  and  the  mildness  with  which  he  received 
this  disapproval  was  thought  to  be  his  assent. 
He  was  not  good-looking,  excepting  for  the  great 
advantage  that  must  be  granted  to  the  healthy. 
He  was  healthy ;  and  his  sea-blue  eyes,  very  observ- 
ant and  roving,  set  off  a  dull  face  and  a  dull  form. 

He  slouched,  he  scrambled,  he  sprawled,  he  ran, 
he  limped,  he  climbed,  in  the  search  after  animals. 
He  never  went  into  the  small  towns  that  were  with- 
in the  boundary  of  his  hut.  City  life  appeared  to 
upset  him,  as  sea  upsets  the  land  lubber.     He 


The  Hunter  and  Silvia  3 

got  a  good  natured  neighbour  to  do  his  errands  for 
him,  and  repaid  the  deed  with  some  item  from  the 
natural  world. 

Silvia  Lake  was  the  beauty  of  Alamanca  Creek; 
and  her  father,  Silvester  Lake,  had  endless  callers 
at  their  home  on  Creek  Point.  He  took  the  honour 
to  himself,  being  an  important  feeling  man;  but 
Silvia,  whose  mother  was  dead,  had  reason  to 
know  that  she  was  the  star  for  pony-riding  boys  to 
dream  of. 

She  was  as  slender  as  beauty  can  be,  without 
losing  power ;  and  she  had  a  sense  of  propriety  that 
beat  away  the  rascals  without  any  fuss.  There 
were  men  with  tall  banking  accounts  who  haunted 
Alamanca  Creek ;  but  it  was  easy  to  see  that  Silvia 
valued  men  for  their  less  visible  qualities. 

Such  adventures  as  the  winning  of  woman  were 
beyond  Louis  Buttress.  He  was  "carved  out  for 
the  dumb  creation, "  which  are  his  own  words  again. 
The  vanity,  the  folly,  the  deceit,  the  excesses,  which 
lessen  humanity,  were  outside  his  experience;  and 
he  had  no  thoughts  to  understand  them. 


4  The  Hunter 

Now  in  hunting,  a  man  learns  a  lore  which  is  kept 
out  of  school  books,  and  Louis  had  gone  deep  in  this 
one  vein.  Where  he  went  nobody  really  knew,  and 
few  would  have  cared  to  follow  him.  He  was  so 
thoroughly  at  home  in  the  brush  that  he  shared 
the  sympathy  of  the  dumb  creation.  As  a  part  of 
the  wood  life,  he  understood  cunning  observations 
of  any  outsider. 

B  uttress  delighted  in  the  wild  and  had  a  sense  of 
"the  game"  in  his  fights  with  the  animal  world. 
Many  a  creature  went  off  scot-free  because  a 
plucky  fight  had  won  him  another  chance. 

When  this  tale  opens,  Silvester  Lake's  fortunes 
were  at  a  low  ebb.  A  rapid  consumption  had 
taken  hold  of  him;  but  his  spirits  were  rampant 
and  he  would  not  believe  in  his  illness.  Silvia 
was  debating  the  problem  of  life  on  her  own  ac- 
count. Bill  Din,  a  champion  pony  rider,  fascin- 
ated her  with  his  manliness  and  power ;  while  Jack 
Sheridan,  an  Englishman,  had  tales  of  adventure 
by  land  and  sea.  "Spen,"  a  sly  youth  who  was 
ready  to  use  deceit  to  win  her,  had  no  power  what- 


The  Hunter  and  Silvia  5 

ever,  beyond  that  of  an  old  neighbour,  who  may 

find  a  good  opportunity  in  the  fact  of  a  life-long 

intimacy.     Louis  knew  nothing  of  all  this.     Spen 

told    him    of    it    in  rambling   tales   sometimes; 

but    why   should   Louis  remember  it?     When   a 

man   is   making   a   fly    that   is   to    take   a   wily 

fish,    can    he    grasp    the    futile  tales    of  human 
creatures? 

"A  lot  of  madness  among  you  humans,"  he 
would  say  as  his  fingers  contrived  the  small  snare. 

Spen  one  day  was  worse  than  usual.  He  found 
Louis  preparing  for  a  shooting  expedition;  and 
thought  he  would  relieve  the  tedium  of  the  process 
by  giving  the  half-witted  creature  an  account  of 
mankind's  doings.     So  he  began. 

"Darn  it!  You  have  the  best  of  it  in  this  rat 
hole  by  the  Creek.  The  devil's  loose  in  Alamanca, 
anyway!  Talk  of  marriage!  There  ain't  a  bit 
of  decency  from  one  end  of  the  ridge  to  the  other — 
the  married  are  worse  than  the  single.  Half  the 
kids  ain't  aware  of  their  parents.  That's  truth, 
Louis!" 


6  The  Hunter 

Louis  looked  at  him  blankly  and  said,  after  a 
suitable  pause:  "Throw  that  knife  over!" 

"Ain't  you  glad  you're  out  of  this  human 
muddle?  The  Spenloves  are  gone.  Biddy's  off 
with  that  red-haired  man  at  the  store,  and  the 
man's  taken  that  girl  of  Henderson's.  What  do 
you  think  of  it?" 

There's  nothing  in  it, "  said  Louis. 
Man,  what  are  you  dreaming  of?"  said  Spen. 
"Every  word's  true.     That  kid  of  the  Jumper 
family  down  to " 


n 


it 


"Bite  that  string,  while  I  cut." 

"You're  a  darned  madman:  and  your  eyes  is 
drilled  holes  that  see  nothin'." 

"Wal,  that's  all  I  got  to  say.     I  ain't  able  to 
follow  you." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Spen.     "Say,  have  you  ever 
seen  Silvia  Lake?" 

Don't  know, "  said  Louis. 
She's  a  beautiful  kid.     I'd  like  to  marry  her, 
Louis.     But    she's   proud,    darned    proud.     Wal, 
good-bye!"     And  Spen  was  gone. 


a 


it 


The  Hunter  and  Silvia  7 

With  a  smile  of  glee,  Louis  prepared  to  go 
out  to  the  woods,  snatched  up  his  gun,  and 
made  for  a  quarter  where  he  hoped  to  secure  some 
wild  fowl. 

It  was  a  fine  afternoon  in  late  August.  The 
hunter's  eyes  had  a  passionate  joy  in  them,  as  he 
threaded  his  way  through  the  brush.  There  was 
a  small  pond,  not  far  away,  the  north  side  of  it 
belonging  to  Silvester  Lake,  hidden  in  birch  and 
hickory ;  and  the  south,  where  Louis  was  crawling, 
considered  impassable,  being  mostly  a  quicksand 
of  mud  and  slush,  in  which  Buttress  had  once  lost 
two  good  milk  cows.  Such  terrible  deaths  had 
frightened  everybody ;  and  there  was  not  a  man  and 
a  gun  supposed  to  venture  amongst  the  willows 
and  milkweeds;  but  Louis  found  his  way,  willy 
nilly.  He  had  learned  many  a  trick  taught  by  a 
fox  or  a  coon,  and  he  loved  this  bit  of  untouchable 
ground.  Everyone  wondered  where  he  got  some 
of  his  specimens ;  but  nobody  knew  that  Ari-wa-kis 
pond,  on  its  impassable  south  side,  saw  as  much  of 
him  as  of  foxes  and  birds.     But  shooting  was  not 


8  The  Hunter 

done  at  this  end  of  the  lake,  as  Buttress  wished  for 
silence  and  secrecy. 

To-day,  for  once,  he  had  his  gun.  He  wanted  a 
wild  fowl.  He  was  sure  of  it  here;  and  all  the 
neighbours  had  gone  to  Alamanca  to  a  big  fair. 

Creeping  along  in  the  quiet  afternoon  light,  he 
adventured  a  bunch  of  wild  geese,  not  very  far 
away.  Louis  lowered  himself  and  watched  in- 
tently. 

Where  he  lay,  he  could  see  the  glint  of  the  water 
in  a  saffron  light,  which  poured  from  the  sky  all  the 
more  deeply,  because  there  was  a  bank  of  purple 
cloud  below  the  setting  sun.  Here  the  geese, 
looking  clean  and  beautiful,  folding  and  unfolding 
their  white  wings,  talked  to  one  another. 

Restless  in  movement,  they  were  yet  very  peace- 
ful and  easy.  Close  about  Buttress  were  the 
birches  and  hickories,  waving  in  a  small  wind,  and 
there  was  the  rattling  of  the  milkweed  seeds  in  their 
pods.  There  was  some  seeded  grass  waving  too, 
and  something  feathery  to  the  left  of  him.  With- 
out moving  his  body  Buttress  allowed  his  eyes  to 


The  Hunter  and  Silvia  9 

turn  aside,  prepared  for  more  adventure.  The 
feathery  something  was  the  tail  of  a  fox,  who  was 
after  the  same  game  as  himself;  and  the  waving  of 
the  tail  was  a  piece  of  splendid  trickery — merely 
the  fox's  imitation  of  growing  plants  and  moving 
leaves. 

Buttress's  eyes  met  those  of  the  fox,  and  there 
was  a  moment  of  intense  excitement.  Then  the 
animal  recognized  a  friendly  sportsman,  under- 
stood everything,  and  continued  the  hunt  with  the 
hunter. 

Buttress  felt  his  respect  leap  up  in  a  flame. 
They  were  allies.  It  was  so  entertaining  that  his 
thoughts  wavered  from  the  geese. 

Suddenly  the  geese  flew  away  in  wild  excite- 
ment; and  Buttress  knew  that  the  fox  was  as 
surprised  as  himself.  The  animal  made  a 
graceful  leap  forward,  and  then  went  like  the 
wind.  There  was  now  a  splash  in  the  water, 
and  the  man  searched  its  surface  for  the  dis- 
turbing influence. 

He  laid  down  his  gun. 


io  The  Hunter 

Someone  had  swum  in  and  was  now  swimming 
out.  It  was  so  full  of  interest  to  Louis  that  he 
rose  to  his  full  height,  ran  rather  recklessly  through 
the  brush,  and  came  out  on  the  edge  of  the  little 
lake. 

Shining  pools  caught  the  evening  light,  glitter- 
ing amidst  the  brush;  and  not  far  away,  at  the 
extreme  limit  of  Silvester  Lake's  property,  he 
saw  an  emerging   dripping   figure. 

He  had  hunted  out  everything  that  could  be 
hunted  in  this  region,  but  this  was  the  first  time  he 
had  found  his  own  kind.  She  was  standing  per- 
fectly motionless,  looking  towards  the  evening 
light.  The  instinct  to  observe  was  his  very  life, 
so  Buttress  was  aware  at  once  that  she  had  not 
seen  him,  and  was  enjoying  the  air  bath;  and  he 
exclaimed  in  delight: 

"My  God!  Ain't  that  just  right!  Plumb  as 
the  Almighty  planned  her!" 

A  water  hen,  disturbed  by  his  intruding  and 
unguarded  feet,  called  loudly,  and  went  into  the 
lake.     The  girl  looked  in  that  direction  and  her 


The  Hunter  and  Silvia  n 

eyes  met  the  man's,  just  as  the  fox's  eyes  had  done 
it,  a  minute  ago. 

Then  Louis  watched  and  saw  two  small  hands 
draw  together  on  the  girl's  breast.  He  knew  what 
that  meant,  because  he  had  seen  actions  with 
similar  meanings  when  in  the  wilds;  and  then 
she  stopped  the  frenzied  gesture  and  her  eyes 
reached  him  with  their  force,  and  she  gave  him 
her  whole  attention.  Buttress  put  it  in  one  word, 
"trust." 

"  Great  God  in  Heaven !  She's  clothed  from  my 
poor  eyes  by  that  faith  of  hers,"  he  said.  He 
waved  his  hand  to  her  and  disappeared  amongst 
the  brush. 

"Now  there's  the  difference  between  the  know- 
ing and  the  unknowing,"  said  Buttress  excitedly; 
"the  beasts  would  feel  clothed,  not  having  under- 
stood the  fall ;  but  the  woman  knew ;  yet  rose  above 
it.  'Tis  true,  I  saw  nothing  but  her  beautiful 
soul,  after  that  first  look,  when  she  was  unknown 
of  my  presence." 

He  needed  all  his  attention  to  get  out  of  the 


12  The  Hunter 

morass  in  safety.     This  done  he  clambered  through 
an  oak  grove,  full  of  thought. 

"If  that  ain't  a  curious  coincidence!  Here 
comes  Spen  in  the  afternoon,  with  those  darned 
tales  of  darkness,  and  out  I  went  to  get  something 
clean  into  my  brain  and  heart.  Here  is  the  Al- 
mighty puttin'  it  into  the  soul  of  that  woman,  to 
bathe  in  my  presence — that's  to  tell  Louis  But- 
tress that  everything's  just  all  right,  same  as  it 
ought  to  be.     That's  enough  for  me." 


CHAPTER  II 


THE   FUNERAL 


TDUTTRESS  went  home  with  no  fowl  that  night, 

so  he  took  the  great  household  resource  for 

his  supper,  and  fell  back  upon  a  dish  of  corn  mush. 

It  was  very  good.  The  simplest  food  can  be 
delicious  after  hours  in  the  brush. 

Spen  called  in  about  nine  o'clock,  and  sat  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  without  a  word.  Louis  was 
wondering  if  he  were  ill,  when  the  news  came  out — 
Silvester  Lake  had  broken  a  blood-vessel  and  was 
dying. 

"They  say,"  said  Spen,  "that  the  dough's  all 
done  in  that  quarter.  The  kid's  defenceless — not  a 
dollar  behind  her.     It's  a  mighty  shame." 

Louis  was  cobbling  an  old  shoe,  and  failed  to 

realize  the  importance  of  the  news. 

13 


14  The  Hunter 

"The  place  will  be  sold  up.  Those  two  mean 
brutes  who  shove  themselves  into  the  house  on 
every  occasion — I  suppose  they'll  git  in  every  day. 
Of  the  two,  I'd  prefer  Sheridan,  but  I  ain't  gotten 
a  chance  someway.  If  the  old  man  departs,  some- 
thin'  '11  happen  quick.  The  kid  can't  stay  here, 
unless  she  marries  one  of  us." 

"Sure  she  can!"  said  Louis,  dropping  the  shoe. 
"What  good  has  she  gotten  from  her  father?     He 
ain't  done  nothin'  but  live  there  for  himself.     If 
she  did  before,  she  can  do  now,  sure!" 
Ever  seen  her?"  inquired  Spen. 
Not  that  I  know  of, "  said  Louis. 

"There  again,"  said  Spen,  "not  that  you  know 
of?  Who  but  you  in  all  the  country  would  have  a 
doubt  about  it!  Once  seen,  ever  remembered — 
that's  what  the  boys  think  round  here.  You  must 
have  seen  'er,  only  beauty  don't  hold  you,  no  more 
than  dollars." 

"  I  remember  some  things,"  said  Louis.  "  I  know 
I've  seen  her  father.  I  saw  him  beating  a  dog,  and 
I  tol'  him  of  it. " 


n 


1 1 


The  Funeral  15 

"I  bet  you  did,  and  you  ain't  ever  liked  him 


since. " 


"Can't  say  I  have — an  unnatural  sort  of  man, " 
said  Louis. 

"Not  as  unnatural  as  you,"  said  Spen,  taking 
himself  off  the  table,  and  going  as  quickly  as  he 
had  come. 

It  was  three  days  later  when  Spen  called 
again;  and  the  good  suit  he  wore,  his  grave 
face,  and  the  overpowering  air  of  importance 
he  brought  into  the  shanty,  told  his  errand  to 
Louis. 

"Silvester's  gone?"  inquired  the  hunter,  who 
was  washing  a  shirt,  in  a  tub  half  filled  with  soap 
and  water. 

" Slid  off  the  globe, "  said  Spen.  "You're  asked 
to  the  funeral  on  Monday.  Eleven  o'clock  at  the 
house,  there'll  be  a  sermon  by  the  Rev.  William 
Elder,  and  then  the  man's  virtues  will  be  rolled  off, 
while  his  sins  will  be  mangled  in  the  washing 
machine  of  the  Church.  You're  lucky,  you  ain't 
never  attended  a  funeral,  have  you? 


»» 


16  The  Hunter 


it  T»1 


I'll  attend  this  one,"  said  Louis.  "Seem' 
they're  my  neighbours.  I'll  kinder  show  myself 
at  the  last  minute.  Not  inside  the  door,  no  thin' 
uncomfortable,  but  in  respect  to  the  silent 
peace  there's  been  on  both  sides.  I  owe  the 
family  a  duty;  and  barring  the  dog-beating,  there's 
never  been  anythin'  but  peace  between  the  Lakes 
and  me. ' ' 

"Miss  Lake  made  the  list  out,"  said  Spen. 
"My!  She's  gone  thin  and  white,  and  prouder 
than  a  queen.  She  said  to  me,  'You'll  go  to  But- 
tress,'  and  I  said,  'I'll  do  so' — I  didn't  like  to  tell 
her  you  was  death  on  funerals,  for  fear  the  kid 
took  it  personal;  and  she  turned  away,  and  again 
she  looked  back, — 'You'll  tell  Buttress,'  she  said, 
'he's  been  a  good  neighbour,'  she  said,  kinder 
sorrowful. " 

"What?  She  did?"  inquired  Louis,  dropping 
the  shirt  back  into  the  suds. 

"She  did — I  bet  she's  seen  you  rollin'  about  in 
the  grass,  playin'  those  huntin'  games  of  yours. 
'Good  neighbour'  was  what  she  said,  and  it  sur- 


The  Funeral  17 

prised  me.  That  shirt '11  do;  get  it  out  while 
there's  some  sun  to  dry  it. " 

"  Ain't  it  a  good  thing  he's  died  while  I'm  having 
a  washing  day?"  said  Louis.  "I  wash  every  sea- 
son that  comes  in,  it  keeps  it  in  my  mind.  Now 
I'll  have  a  clean  shirt  to  go  in;  but  I'll  stick  at  the 
back  of  the  crowd  where  no  one  can  see  me  so, 
you  can  say  afterwards  accidental  to  Miss  Lake: 
'Buttress  was  there,  I  seen  him  on  the  edge  of  the 
crowd!'  " 

"My!  You  self-important  beggar!  She'll 
never  think  of  it  again." 

"Seein'  she  asked  twice  about  it,  she  might  think 
of  me.  Remember,  I'm  there,  Spen,  whether  you 
see  me  or  not — I'm  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  but 
I'm  there." 

Monday  was  a  wretched  day,  beginning  with 
clouds  and  mist,  and  pouring  with  rain  before 
eleven.  Buttress  did  little  else  but  prepare  for 
his  first  funeral ;  and  what  with  washing  and  wrig- 
gling into  a  better  suit,  he  felt  unhappy  and  ill. 

"There  ain't  a  dumb  creature  would  know  me 


18  The  Hunter 

this  morninV'  he  said.  "I  believe  I'll  scare  the 
dog. " 

And  Testy,  the  faithful  follower  of  his  adven- 
tures, acted  like  one  ashamed,  sniffed  about  his 
master,  and  whined  in  a  fit  of  misery. 

"It  ain't  for  long,"  said  Louis.  "This  poor 
Lake  has  gone  out,  and  for  the  sake  of  his  lady 
daughter  we're  dressin'  ourselves  up  like  a  figure- 
head ;  but  presently  the  show  will  be  through,  and 
back  I'll  come  running;  and  we'll  go  huntin',  to 
get  it  out  of  our  minds  and  thoughts. " 

The  dog,  looking  better  satisfied,  retired  to  the 
shed  behind  the  shanty. 

Louis's  habit  of  avoiding  crowds  made  it  difficult 
to  move  towards  one ;  yet  in  obedience  to  the  invi- 
tation, he  found  himself  on  the  hill,  and  not  far 
from  Lake's  south  verandah. 

There  he  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  a  tall 
weary-looking  figure,  with  flapping  black  coat,  and 
an  almost  terrified  expression. 

Suddenly  he  saw  Catherine  Talbot  moving  about 
among   the   crowd   of  men.     She    was  the  busy 


The  Funeral  19 

woman  of  the  neighbourhood,  having  to  run  the 
domestic  machinery  of  the  funerals,  weddings, 
and  births  in  Alamanca  Creek. 

"Guess  I'll  go,"  said  Louis  to  himself,  "I've 
been  seen  at  the  funeral — that's  all  they'll  need 
from  me. " 

But  before  he  could  retire  behind  a  big  double 
buggy,  whose  sheltering  blackness  appeared  a 
haven  in  a  wilderness,  Catherine  Talbot  had 
espied  him.     She  immediately  came  up  to  him. 

"So  it's  you,  Louis.  Come  to  a  funeral  at  last. 
That's  good.  Now  you  think  about  death  a  bit — 
it  ain't  goin'  to  leave  you  out. " 

"Death  and  me  had  it  out  in  my  teens,"  said 
Louis;  "  'twas  an  old  grizzly  did  the  job,  and  I  sure 
thank  him." 

"Wal,  you  come  and  look  at  the  dead  man. 
He's  beautiful." 

"I  ain't  agoin'  to  do  it.  If  I  couldn't  visit 
Silvester  Lake  in  life,  I  ain't  agoin'  to  thrust 
myself  before  him  in  death." 

"The    Minister's    there,    and   you'll    hear  the 


20  The  Hunter 

sermon.  It's  writ  out  on  seven  sheets  of  paper, 
but  to  be  said  off  by  rote. " 

"I  ain't  goin'  a  step  nearer  than  where  I  am," 
said  Louis;  "  there,  ma'am,  that's  all  there  is  to  it! " 

" Louis,  you're  a  heathen!"  said  Catherine 
Talbot. 

"Right,  ma'am.  Don't  mind  the  title  a  bit!" 
said  Louis. 

11  And  so  is  Miss  Lake,  sure  thing!"  said  Cather- 
ine, as  she  hurried  back  to  the  verandah.  "She's 
nearly  as  bad  as  Louis.  I  ain't  able  to  get  over 
the  fact  that  she's  let  tin'  all  these  men  run  her 
affairs.  There's  Sheridan  amongst  the  papers; 
Bill  Din  actin'  up  to  the  neighbours ;  and  that  idle 
Spen  taking  authority  like  as  if  he  were  a  Lake; 
and  her  poor  father  not  cold  in  his  coffin.  And  the 
men  that  have  come  in  from  the  country !  It  sure 
makes  me  feel  like  I  shouldn't  be  here — me  being 
strict,  and  a  good  woman. " 

Louis  did  not  go,  now  that  Catherine  had  been 
met  and  repulsed;  he  stayed  behind  and  screened 
by  pine  trees  watched  the  melancholy  group. 


The  Funeral  21 

A  long  narrow-looking  coffin,  which  proved  the 
reproduction  of  Silvester's  figure  during  the  last 
few  months,  and  then  the  pitiful  procession,  empty 
and  forlorn.  A  slender  black  figure  was  the  only 
mourner;  and  as  Louis  craned  his  neck  and  saw  the 
set  of  the  shoulders,  the  movement  of  the  flower- 
like  head,  he  drew  back  to  say  in  awed  tones: 
"That's  enough  for  me, "  and  he  turned,  and  took 
a  circuitous  route  home ;  and  as  he  plodded  through 
sumac  and  sunflowers  and  goldenrod,  he  said: 
"I  feel  sad  for  her,  because  I'll  always  think  what 
she  did  for  me.  And  them  that  make  us  feel  like 
she  made  me  feel,  we'd  like  to  always  see  them 
happy  and  safe  from  harm.  I'd  put  her  in  a 
beautiful  land  of  fairy  delights,  with  birds,  beasts, 
and  flowers  talkin'  to  her  to  beat  the  band,  and  I'd 
give  her  a  liberty-lovin'  man  to  watch  over  her,  and 
then  I'd  have  them  go  huntin'  together  out  in  the 
open.  Sure,  she's  beautiful  and  good,  and  I  don* 
think  I'd  ever  felt — any  thin' — before — till  then! 
sure!" 


CHAPTER   III 


A   TIGER   DISGUISED 


OPEN  came  once  more,  with  a  message  from 
Silvia  Lake  to  Louis  Buttress. 

"Say  you!  You're  in  favour!  There  a  smash 
up  at  Ari-wa-kis  and  the  sale's  to-morrow;  and 
you're  asked  by  Miss  Lake  to  look  after  the  stock, 
time  they're  gettin'  sold.  Says  you'll  be  good 
to  'em.  Wants  to  know  if  you'll  have  the  dog, 
Simon?" 

"I'll  buy  it,"  said  Louis.  "Can't  pay  much, 
but  I'll  buy  it. " 

1 '  She'll  never  sell  Simon.  She'll  give  him  to  you. 
Don't  think  Testy  will  like  it  though!  Now  I've 
gotten  no  dog,  and  wantin'  one.  I'd  have  taken 
it  and  petted  it." 

"I'll  take  it,"  said  Louis,  "and  I'll  come  and 


22 


A  Tiger  Disguised  23 

mind  the  stock.  But  I'll  do  no  talkin' — can't  do 
that  at  any  price. " 

"Right.  I'll  book  you  down, — 'a.  dumb  man 
will  bring  out  the  stock. '  Say,  I'm  gettin'  madder 
and  madder.  The  kid  won't  have  Catherine 
Talbot  to  stay  up  there  at  nights. " 

"Don't  blame  her,"  said  Louis.  "Couldn't 
'bide'  it  myself." 

"  It's  time  she  went  then.  I  don't  like  Sheridan 
very  good.  I'd  rather  she  married  him  than 
Din,  'cos  Bill  Din  and  me  have  scrapped  so  to- 
gether, that  I'd  take  it  bad  to  see  him  haul  off  the 
prize — same  time  I  don'  see  the  sense  of  an  English- 
man biddin'  in  for  Silvia. " 

"What's  she  goin'  to  do?" 

"  She's  goin'  to  her  aunt  first  thing,  after  the  sale. 
Someone's  got  to  take  her  across  the  desert.  The 
question  that's  rife  in  Alamanca  Creek  is  'who?'" 

"Bill  Din,  I  should  think,"  said  Louis.  "He 
knows  all  the  tracks,  and  he's  a  known  char- 
acter. " 

"You  bet!    He  is  a  known  character.     Wal, 


24  The  Hunter 

then,  I  can't  say  I  like  it.  He's  known  to  be  after 
the  girl." 

"So  are  you." 

"Sure — if  he  can  do  it,  I  can.  I'd  give  all  I 
possess  to  do  it.  Wouldn't  I  just  take  care  of  her 
if  she'd  trust  me.  She  don't  say  nothin',  'cept  to 
order  us  all  about,  and  keep  us  busy,  so  we  can't 
talk  to  her,  and  she  says  she's  goin'  after  the  sale. ' 

And  Spen  got  up  and  went  out  again,  having  said 
all  that  was  on  his  mind. 

Silvia  Lake  was  up  at  four  on  the  morning  of  the 
sale;  and  Sheridan  and  Bill  Din  arrived  together, 
somewhere  about  six.  The  girl  had  done  all  her 
baking  the  night  before ;  so  she  was  ready  to  receive 
them,  and  came  out  on  the  porch  when  she  heard 
their  step. 

Simon  was  at  her  heels.  Since  her  father's  death 
the  dog  never  left  his  mistress. 

"Bill,"  she  said,  "I  want  you  to  take  the  cata- 
logue and  go  round  and  see  the  labels  is  all  right. ' 

Bill  gave  one  swift  look  at  Sheridan  and  went 
slowly  away. 


A  Tiger  Disguised  25 

Silvia  said,  "Come  in,  Jack,  I've  got  some- 
thing to  give  you — my  father  left  you  a  book. " 

Sheridan  followed  her  into  the  living-room,  and 
Silvia  went  to  her  father's  desk  and  began  moving 
the  papers  and  letters. 

She  moved  them  slowly  and  reluctantly.  Sheri- 
dan, who  had  been  standing  by  the  table  waiting 
for  her  to  turn  around  to  speak  to  him,  found  the 
time  long  and  trying,  so  he  went  to  the  window. 

He  waited  for  some  time,  and  seeing  that  she 
was  still  turning  over  the  papers,  he  frowned  and 
looked  earnestly  at  her.  Getting  no  satisfaction 
from  the  continued  silence  he  went  to  the  door  and 
shut  it. 

"Did  he  really  leave  me  something,  Silvia? 
I'll  treasure  it  as  long  as  I  live!" 

Silvia  had  a  book  in  her  hand,  and  was  turning 
the  pages  slowly,  backwards  and  forwards.  She 
took  it  up,  looked  long  at  it,  and  then  handed  it  to 
him. 

"Yes,  he  left  it  you.  He  thought  a  lot  of  you. 
Good-bye. " 


26  The  Hunter 

"Good-bye.     Then  when  are  you  going?" 

"To-morrow." 

Sheridan  came  up  to  her  and  stood  close  beside 
her.  "I  hope,  Silvia,"  he  said,  "that  you'll  let 
me  help  you  with  regard  to  the  arrangements." 

There  was  a  dead  silence. 

Sheridan  continued.  "Considering  everything, 
your  need  of  care  and  protection,  I  feel  anxious 
about  you. " 

Silvia  went  pale.  She  bit  her  lips  and  looked 
rapidly  about  her,  as  though  in  search  of  something 
that  ought  to  have  been  present,  but  was  not  to  be 
found  anywhere.  Then  she  said  suddenly,  "It's 
comin',  Jack,  it's  all  a' comin'  to  me.  Before  I 
quit  Ari-wa-kis  I'm  to  do  a  bit  o'  talking  to  you." 

"Yes,  I  hoped  so,  Silvia.  I've  been  hoping  you 
would.  I  knew  all  this  quietness,  almost  coldness, 
was  the  result  of  your  father's  death,  and — and, 
why  do  you  look  so  at  me?     Are  you  ill?' 

"I  ain't  ill.  I  ain't  anythin'  but  fire.  I'm  fire 
through  and  through!  You've  got  to  hear  me, 
Jack.    I'm — I'm —   Let's  see,  where's  my  head  this 


A  Tiger  Disguised  2j 

mornin'  ?  I  can't  git  things  clear  some  way,  same 
as 'I  want.  I'd  made  a  vow  I'd  keep  still  but  I 
ain't  able,  I  ain't  made  that  way.  We'll  step  back 
to  May  15th  of  last  year." 

"No,  we  won't.  We'll  never  go  back  there. 
That's  all  done  and  ended." 

"It  ain't  ended.  It's  all  to  be  done  over  again. 
It's  all  to  be  gone  into  to  show  you  what  you  are. 
May  15th  it  was — a  spring  morning.  Oh,  yes — 
you  and  me,  Jack,  we  set  off  for  a  day's  pleasure — 
a  day's  pleasure!     Do  you  hear  me?" 

'  O,  Silvia,  I  hear  you — any  one  would  hear  you. 
I  beg  of  you  to  stop " 

"When  I've  done  and  not  before!  Come  on, 
Jack.  You  ain't  a  coward,  are  you?  A  day's 
pleasure.  Bluebirds  out,  sky  blue,  sun  shining, 
birds  a'singin' — and  you  and  me — out  for  a  day's 
pleasure!  Let's  git  back  into  it.  Don't  it  sound 
straight  ?      A  dandy  day,  you  and  me — out  for  a 

day's " 

Silvia,  are  you  going  mad?" 

You  are,  ain't  you?    Think  it  over.     What 


< . 


u 


28  The  Hunter 

was  it  Dad  said?  'When  will  you  be  home 
again  ? '  Dad  was  sure  easy  done.  Who  answered 
him,  '0  we  was  comin'  back  good  and  early'? 
Everything  straight  that  day.  And  we  went  off, 
and  we  went  along  one  track,  and  then  we  went 
along  another,  and  we  was  engaged  in  talking,  and 
we  went  on — O,  that  road!  I'll  never  forget  that 
road. " 

"Silvia,  I  implore  you!  I  beg,  implore,  beseech 
you!" 

"Do  it!  Do  more  of  it!  But  I'm  agoin' 
on.  That  road,  where  the  pines  brushed  us.  I 
scratched  my  cheek.  I  let  you  rub  it — you !  You, 
Jack  Sheridan!  I  see  myself!  I  see  myself 
allowin'  you  to  do  it !  And  then  where  did  we  lose 
the  way  ?  Ask  God  in  Heaven  where  we  lost  the 
way." 

"We  got  a  little  bit  late,  that's  all!" 

"  O,  that  was  all,  was  it  ?  Who  got  mixed,  you  or 
me  ?  I  sometimes  think  I  ain't  got  a  head — until — 
until  there's  danger.  It  was  where  the  road  ended 
and  the  Creek  came  in — it  was  gittin'  dark — that's 


A  Tiger  Disguised  29 

the  time  I  ought er  a'  been  home  if  you  hadn't 
gotten  out  o'  the  track — done  somethin'  or  another 
— to  get  me  all  tired  out.  For  pity's  sake,  you  had 
me  there !     I  was  sure  done ! ' ' 

''No  harm's  done!  Do  you  see  any  use  in  this, 
all  this,  Silvia?" 

"No,  not  a  bit!  No  use!  I'm  a'comin'  to  the 
part  that's  useful.  All  of  a  sudden  the  truth  came 
out,  came  leaping  out  like  a  great  big  tiger.  You 
was  holdin'  me  tight — on  that  lonely  road — and 
only  the  dark  and  the  moon  a'looking  at  us!  And 
if  God  had  told  me  when  I'd  come  into  the  world 
what  I  was  to  expect,  it  would  have  been  a  lot,  lot 
better!  No,  I  ain't  goin'  to  say  that  against  my 
God,  because  God  was  there.  There  in  the  midst 
of  us,  there  was  God,  a'watchin'  and  a'waitin'. 
And  I  didn't  know  it,  and  the  dark  gaped  at  me, 
and  I  thought  of  my  innocent  old  dad  a'readin'  in 
the  dusk — and  me — where  I  was — and  then  I  said 
to  God — 'Come  right  now!  You're  wanted !  I'll 
have  You,  God!  I'll  have  You  right  now,  all  over 
me  body ! '     And  He  came  into  me.     It  made  some 


30  The  Hunter 

difference  right  off.  I  was  free.  And  then  some- 
thin'  tol'  me  'Take  his  hand,  and  let  God  git  into 
his  fingers  so  he'll  feel  it  same  as  you  have  it.' 
And  I  give  you  the  tips  of  my  fingers,  and  you  held 
them,  against  your  will,  until  the  fire  burnt  you, 
burnt  you  to  your  soul,  and  you  shuddered  and 
shrank  away,  and  got  some  distance  between  you 
and  me.  And  then  I  felt  like  as  if  warm  fires  were 
a'sheddin'  somethin'  over  me,  and  it  come  to  me, 
like  a  great  big  voice:  'There  ain't  no  use  in  care- 
takers and  chaperones  and  men  and  women 
a'shuttin'  you  up  and  telling  you  nothing — there 
ain't  no  use  in  shutting  up,  anyway.  It's  just  God 
that's  wanted. '  That  was  sure  a  big  lesson,  any- 
way !  I  ain't  got  faith  in  the  men  that  believes  in 
guarding  you.  There's  the  rascal,  believe  me! 
And  if  I  come  to  think  of  it,  May  15th  was  a  per- 
fectly straight  day,  same  as  any  other. " 

The  door  opened  and  Din  entered  the  room. 
"Good-bye,  Jack,"   called  Silvia.     "Now  you 
remember  what  I've  said  and  maybe  you'll  feel 


A  Tiger  Disguised  31 

some  different  about  a  lot  o'  things.  Bill,  open 
the  window.  I  got  up  too  early  this  morning  and 
it  ain't  agreed  with  me." 

Bill  Din  opened  the  window ;  and  Jack  Sheridan 
went  out,  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  away. 


CHAPTER   IV 

silvia's  chosen  guide 

r  OUIS  BUTTRESS  drew  near  to  Ari-wa-kis 
*— '     with  extreme  reluctance. 

There  was  no  man  in  the  neighbourhood  more 
anxious  to  perform  a  service  for  Silvester  Lake's 
daughter;  but  he  was  the  only  man  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood who  would  have  preferred  to  have  done 
that  service  in  an  unknown  way. 

As  he  neared  the  house  the  dog,  Testy,  scented 
some  sport,  and  left  his  side. 

So  Buttress,  pulling  himself  together,  went  about 
the  task  of  reaching  the  yard,  without  encounter- 
ing too  many  people. 

'Til  look  for  Bill  Din,  I'm  at  home  with  Bill 

Din, "  he  said,  and  leaping  the  fence  he  made  for  a 

tall  handsome  man  standing  in  the  centre  of  the 

yard. 

32 


Silvia's  Chosen  Guide  33 

'  'Good  for  you,  Louis, "  said  Bill. 

"I  thought  I'd  come,"  said  Buttress,  blinking 
his  eyes  and  looking  at  the  group  of  men  as  though 
he  were  taken  prisoner.  "I'm  going  presently. 
You  ain't  any  idea  of  what  a  grand  day  it  is  for  the 
water.  There  ain't  a  speck  of  thunder — but  I'll 
mind  them  poor  disturbed  souls  which  are  gettin' 
their  lives  sold  away.  Let's  see,  Bill,  who's 
auctioneer?  Right!  Now  I'll  bring  the  beasts 
out,  but  I'll  not  speak.  Look  'ere,  Bill,  you  answer 
if  folk  turn  to  me.  Tell  Spen — where's  Spen  ?  He 
talks  best  in  the  hul  county. " 

A  man  told  Bill  that  Miss  Lake  wanted  him,  so  he 
disappeared  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye;  but  came 
back  to  the  stables,  where  he  found  Buttress  alone, 
for  Spen  had  gone  after  more  lively  company. 

''How's  the  lady?"  inquired  Buttress. 

"Rather  down;  the  day's  blue  for  her.  Never 
heard  you  ask  after  a  lady  before,  Louis." 

' '  Can't  say  that  I  ever  did, "  said  Louis.     "Ain't 

this  pony  petted?     She'll  have  played  with  the 

mare  and  talked  to  her. " 
3 


34  The  Hunter 


<«■ 


« « ' 


<<  T>. 


<  ( 


<  < 


<  < 


<< 


I  give  it  to  Miss  Lake  myself,'  said  Din, 
blushing  as  he  said  it.  "She's  called  'Star.' 
I'm  aiming  to  buy  her  in. " 

That's  good  news,"  said  Buttress. 

I've  good  news  for  you,"  said  Din,  in  a  low 
voice  to  Buttress. 

How  ? ' '  inquired  Buttress.     ' '  River  or  lake  ? ' ' 

Good  God!"  said  Din.  "Ain't  you  never 
human?" 

'How?"  Buttress  inquired  again. 

Miss  Lake  wants  you  to  get  her  across  the 
desert  to  the  junction. " 
,     "Me?" 
"Sure." 

"Did  you  tell  her  the  truth  about  me,  Din? 
How  I'd  serve  her  in  any  way  possible,  but  couldn't 
no  more  take  the  responsibility  than  my  dog  there 
could  do  it.  He  can  follow  me,  or  bring  me  a  bit 
o'  game.  He  can  count  the  sheep,  but  he  can't 
be  responsible.  Did  you  tell  her  ? " 
For  answer  Din  made  a  grimace. 
"You  did,  then.     What  did  she  say?" 


Silvias  Chosen  Guide  35 

"She  asked  me  if  I'd  rather  you  or  Sheridan  took 
her.  I  said  you.  I  said  that  Sheridan  shouldn't 
never  take  her  while  there  was  one  of  us  left  to  do 
it!" 

"Sure!"  said  Louis,  with  a  deep  breath.  "One 
of  us  folks  should  do  it.     What  about  you?" 

"I  love  the  girl." 

"Well?"  Louis  said,  looking  hard  at  Din. 

"You're  all  right,  Louis;  straight  as  a  running 
fox,  but  you  must  remember  the  world.  They  all 
know  how  I'm  mad  in  love  with  her.  You  know 
nothin'  of  mad  love,  do  you?" 

"I  kinder  realize  it. " 

"Wal',  then  realize  that  though  I'd  love  it,  and 
I'd  do  it  if  necessary,  I'd  rather  one  as  had  never 
looked  at  her  did  it.  It  must  be  right,  she's 
thought  it  out  herself,  and  she'll  know  best." 
Sure,"  said  Louis,  suddenly. 
Then  you'll  trust  her  and  do  it?  That's  a 
man.  Go,  while  you're  roused,  and  tell  her  how 
you  feel " 


it  1 


ta 


tt 


Me?    Go  into  a  house?" 


36  The  Hunter 

1 '  Course !  You  must  wake  up,  Buttress.  Clean 
that  mud  off  your  over-alls.  Pity  you  ain't 
gotten  a  clean  pair  for  a  public  day  of  this  sort. 
Now  then,  let's  look  at  you.  What's  that  stuff 
tied  about  your  left  knee  for?" 

"That's  where  a  hole  come,  and  I  ain't  had  the 
time  yet  to  patch  it  up.  She'll  never  notice  my 
knee,  Din,  she'll  be  lookin'  at  my  face. " 

"You  seem  to  know  how  she  looks,"  said  Din, 
'"cos  she  does  look  straight.  But  a  man  should 
come  before  a  lady  as  fine  as  he  can  be — not  all 
mussed  up.  It  ain't  no  use  tellin'  you  to  comb  out 
that  tangle  of  hair.  Truth  to  tell  you're  a  bit 
barbaric — your  eyes  is  the  only  clean  bit  about 
you." 

1 ' This  is  more  than  I  can  bear.  I  ain't  fit  to  look 
at  a  lady?"  said  Louis. 

"You're  fit  to  look  and  fit  to  talk  to  a  lady. 
She'll  excuse  your  misfits  in  clothes,  'cos  she  knows 
you  of  old  and  by  report.  Now  you  just  go  and  be 
yourself.  The  women  will  let  you  through  into 
the " 


Silvia's  Chosen  Guide  37 

"Women?"  said  Louis. 

"They'll  not  hurt  you.  Go  right  through  'em, 
and  don't  speak  if  you  can't  manage  it,  though  a 
polite  good-morning  don't  hurt  any  one.  Don't 
stop  to  think,  but  go !  First  door  on  the  left,  once 
you're  through  the  kitchen." 

Buttress  touched  the  pony,  fondled  it,  and  left 
it  suddenly.  He  had  grown  pale,  Din  could  see  it 
under  the  russet  of  exposure,  which  gave  the  skin 
a  curious  look. 

"Life's  bitter  hard,"  said  the  hunter,  as  he  got 
to  the  stable  door. 

"Sure  it  is!"  said  Bill  Din,  regretfully. 

Louis  was  walking  slowly,  and  with  the  meaning 
of  a  great  purpose,  so  everybody  looked  at  him — 
even  the  auctioneer,  who  was  giving  some  papers 
to  the  clerk.  When  the  kitchen  was  reached,  the 
man  made  a  plunge  forward;  but  somebody  had 
scent  in  their  handkerchief,  and  it  made  Louis's 
head  reel.     He  caught  the  door  for  support. 

"Mornin',"  he  said  desperately. 

A  group  of  women  turned  and  spoke;  but  they 


38  The  Hunter 

were  so  full  of  curiosity,  that  their  good-morning 
had  no  meaning  to  it. 

Louis  gathered  this,  and  strung  himself  up  to 
further  efforts.  He  walked  through  the  kitchen 
and  took  a  plunge  into  unknown  regions,  and  he 
knew  the  women  were  discussing  him  when  he  had 
gone. 

Then  he  forgot  them,  because  the  parlour  door 
was  open,  and  he  saw  Miss  Lake  standing  by  the 
window. 

And  there  was  Ari-wa-kis,  glistening  away  in  a 
faint  gleam  of  passing  sunlight !  And  the  windows 
were  wide  open,  and  he  could  hear  the  squawking 
blue  jays,  and  he  breathed  again. 

He  had  held  his  hat  in  his  hand,  but  now  he  put 
it  on  his  head  again,  feeling  that  he  ought  to  do 
something  or  other;  but  he  took  it  off  again  as  he 
approached  the  girl. 

She  saw  that  he  was  trembling  and  could  not 
hold  his  fingers  still,  and  she  bit  her  lips. 

"Did  Mr.  Din  tell  you  what  I'd  asked  of  you, 
Mr.  Buttress?" 


Silvias  Chosen  Guide  39 

"He  did— told  me— he  did." 

"Perhaps  you  don't  care  to  go  away  from  Ari- 
wa-kis,  even  for  a  day?  I  asked  you.  .  .  .  You 
see,  I  know  you. " 

There  was  a  dead  silence,  only  Louis  Buttress 
looked  at  Silvia,  and  she  looked  at  him.  There  was 
a  clock  in  the  room  and  the  ticking  maddened 
Louis,  who  was  thinking  deeply 

"Stop  him!"  he  said  suddenly. 

Silvia  took  it  out  of  the  room,  and  came  back 
to  find  his  eyes  eagerly  awaiting  her  return. 

"Miss  Lake,"  he  said. 

She  waited  for  his  words,  turning  away  when  she 
saw  he  was  not  ready,  and  the  knowledge  that  she 
did  not  hurry  him  sent  a  peaceful  glow  over  the 
hunter's  disturbed  feelings. 

She  opened  another  window.  "There's  the 
south  side  of  the  lake,  where  you  was  hunting," 
she  said.  "How  many  geese  were  there,  Mr. 
Buttress?" 

"There  was  a  round  dozen — the  thirteenth 
went  up  after;  I  seen  it  after  I  seen  you,  Miss 


40  The  Hunter 

Lake — I'll  take  you  over  the  desert — I  can  do 
it  in  a  day. " 

"The  men  say  it  takes  nearer  two  days?" 

"With  me  it's  a  one-day  job.  I  know  all  the 
best  tracks,  Miss  Lake.  I  can  show  you  something 
that'll  interest  you.  I  know  a  good  place  where 
we'll  rest  the  horses.  I  ain't  a  fancy  guide,  but 
I'll  do  it.  You're  right,  Miss  Lake,  I'm  the  man 
for  the  job. " 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Buttress.     To-morrow?" 

"To-morrow,  and  I'll  keep  your  dog  good  and 
safe  till  you  come  back  to  claim  him.  I  ain't 
much  of  a  guide  to  appear  before  strangers,  but 
I'll  give  you  the  slip  when  we've  bridged  the  desert 
and  got  on  the  common  track.  Good-morning, 
Miss  Lake." 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Buttress. " 

Louis  went  out  of  the  kitchen  without  a  single 
thought  for  the  crowd  of  observers.  A  voice  was 
singing  in  his  ears,  and  the  song  was:  "Good- 
morning,  Mr.  Buttress." 

The  yard  was  reached  at  last,  and  he  found  him- 


Silvia's  Chosen  Guide  41 

self  hurling  animals  out  into  a  muddy  ring  in  a 
faint  mist  and  some  fine  rain.  He  did  not  know 
how  it  was  done,  but  custom  did  the  work  in  such 
a  way  that  the  auctioneer  was  praising  him. 

Louis's  eyes  were  full  of  wonder,  and  Bill  Din 
sought  a  word:  "You'll  do  it  then?" 
Promised, "  said  Louis  desperately. 
That's   right.     You'll   be   rewarded   for  this. 
I'll  come  up  to-night,  and  we'll  fix  things  good  and 
comfortable  for  the  journey." 

" Sure — you'd  best  come, "  said  Louis,  "my  head- 
piece is  all  of  a  whirl,  and  I  ain't  gotten  fingers — 
they're  all  thumbs. " 

Bill  Din  laughed,  and  Spen,  watching  from  a 
distance,  grew  silent  and  thoughtful. 


11 


a 


CHAPTER  V 


BILL  DIN   PROVIDES 


HP  RUE  to  his  word  Bill  Din  arrived  to  furnish  the 
hunter  with  the  means  of  journeying.  Louis 
was  amazed  to  see  the  bundle  that  was  thrown 
down  on  his  wooden  table. 

"What's  all  that ? "  he  said. 

"Your  wardrobe,"  said  Bill  Din. 

"There  I  stop,"  said  Louis.  "I  don't  put  no 
trust  in  clothes — strange  ones  in  particular.  Did 
you  see  how  queer  I  looked  at  the  funeral?  It  was 
my  strange  clothes." 

"Listen  to  me,   Louis.     These  togs  ain't  the 

horrible   truck   you   wore   on   that   gloomy   day. 

These  is  sporting  clothes,  true  sporting  clothes, 

that'll  give  you  a  new  impression  of  yourself. " 

"New  things  are  out  of  my   track.      I'll  lose 

42 


Bill  Din  Provides  43 

my  way  in  the  desert  if  I'm  got  up  like  a  play 
actor. " 

"Look  at  this  coat!  It's  made  for  you,  a  mad 
hunter.  Look  at  it,  free  about  the  throat  and 
leather  on  the  shoulders  where  the  gun  comes,  and 
a  kinder  style  of  its  own,  too.  Now  put  that  coat 
on,  and  I  bet  you'll  feel  comfortable.  For  Miss 
Lake's  guide  you  must  be  a  guide.  Look  at  this 
hat.  It's  real  good,  and  I  tell  you  the  birds  and 
beasts  will  like  it.  Smells  of  the  woods,  too.  I've 
done  a  lot  o'  huntin'  in  it  myself.  It's  a  dandy  hat, 
and  I  lend  it  to  you  because  you're  Miss  Lake's 
guide. " 

"You're  real  good,"  said  Louis,  "to  see  me 
through  my  trouble." 

"You're  the  limit,"  said  Bill  Din.  "Trouble, 
why,  it's  a  privilege!" 

"I'm  so  dratted  nervous,  and  ignorant.  Our 
family  was  always  out  of  the  running  of  the  world. 
I  don't  mind  the  hat,  I  feel  as  if  it  was  mine,  as 
soon  as  I  seen  it.  No  ties — I  ain't  goin'  to  have  a 
tie!      That  slapping  green  tie  may  suit  a  dashing 


44  The  Hunter 

youth  who  rides  ponies  in  the  eye  of  the  public,  but 
it's  plumb  ridik'lous  for  a  retired  sort  like  me. " 

"It  gives  you  a  wonderful  air,"  said  Din 
thoughtfully.  "I  ask  you  to  wear  it  for  a  minute 
to  please  me.     Ain't  you  got  a  looking-glass ! " 

"It's  a  poor  one,"  said  Louis.  "I  can  see  my- 
self in  the  lake  any  day." 

There  was  a  rattle  on  the  door;  it  was  flung 
violently  open,  and  Spen  entered  the  room.  He 
gazed  in  amazement  at  the  two  men. 

An  old  lamp  burning  on  the  bracket  near  the 
door  went  up  into  a  flaming  smoking  daub,  and 
revealed  Louis  in  his  sporting  suit.  Bill  Din  was 
leaning  against  the  table  to  get  the  full  effect  by  a 
backward  tilt. 

"What  on  earth?"  cried  Spen. 

"That's  our  guide, "  said  Bill  Din,  curtly. 

Spen  remained  motionless,  but  his  eyelids  quiv- 
ered; and  Louis,  who  had  already  looked  into  the 
young  man's  face,  said:  "Miss  Lake,  Spen.' 

"You  takin'  her?"  inquired  Spen. 

"He's  the  man,"  said  Din. 


<< 


11 


Bill  Din  Provides  45 

"Then  what  are  you  doin'  here?"  inquired  Spen, 
turning  savagely  on  Bill. 

"Fixing  his  clothes,  so  they'll  be  good  and  suit- 
able for  the  journey  with  the  lady." 

Spen  kicked  Louis's  long  boots  under  the  table, 
and  frowned  at  Bill  Din. 

I  guess  I'll  go — and  see  Sheridan, "  he  said. 
You're  welcome,  Spen,"  said  Louis.  "I'm 
much  obliged  to  Bill  for  fittin'  me  out,  but  there 
may  be  need  of  more'n  one,  with  such  a  wild  one 
as  me.  I'm  sure  out  at  holes  on  every  side  of  me, 
but  you're  welcome  to  do  as  you  please. " 

Bill  Din  smiled  faintly  at  this  round-about 
speech,  and  Spen  retreated  into  the  darkness  of 
the  night. 

"Birds  of  a  feather  flock  together,"  said  Bill 
Din.  "He's  mad  he  ain't  the  guide.  It's  best 
it's  you,  Louis,  on  all  accounts.  Now  the  clothes 
is  fixed,  I'll  tell  you  about  the  ponies — you 
may  want  another — will  your  Peggy  go  with  my 
Gin-fly?" 

"Peg  will  go  with  Star, "  said  Louis, 


46  The  Hunter 

"That's  good,"  said  Bill.  "Let  Star  take  the 
lady  as  long  as  she's  in  the  country.  I've  brought 
you  a  basket  with  some  food  and  dishes;  and  when 
you  camp  for  the  night  you  can  see  what  it  is. ' 

"I  could  pick  up  food, "  said  Louis.  "I'll  take 
the  gun.     It  would  be  somethin'  to  pass  the  time. ' 

"Take  my  basket,  too.  There's  all  there  a 
girl'll  want  for  supper.  You  don't  know  very 
good  what  girls  like.  Would  you  have  thought 
of  chocolate?" 

Louis  shook  his  head. 

"I've  forgotten  nothin',"  said  Bill,  "nothin' 
left  to  think  of!  The  last  bit  o'  pleasure  for 
months  to  come.  You  don't  know  the  pain  love 
is — you're  fixed  high  and  dry  on  safe  shores  by  the 
passion  of  huntin'.  I've  sometimes  thought  it 
was  good  to  be  you,  Louis.  To  have  your  job  as 
guide,  I'd  have  given  all  I'm  possessed  of,  and  you 
take  it  cool  as  a  winter  night.  I'm  tortured  with 
doubt — will  she  remember  me  in  six  months,  when 
next  I  see  her  ? ' ' 

Bill  Din  had  flung  himself  on  the  floor  of  Louis's 


Bill  Din  Provides  47 

shanty,  and  was  putting  a  stick  of  cherry  wood  into 
the  open  door  of  the  stove,  stirring  up  some  dead 
ashes. 

Louis  looked  miserable  and  said  after  awhile: 
"If  it  makes  you  so  ill  to  think  of  her  forgettin', 
go  and  clinch  it,  go  right  over  this  minute  to  Ari- 
wa-kis,  and  tell  her  she's  your  everything. " 

"What  good'll  that  do,  if  she  ain't  of  the  same 
mind  as  me?" 

"Then  she  don't — waT — she  don't  show  hopeful 
signs  of  partiality?"  inquired  Louis. 

"She  thinks  some  of  me.  She  was  a  bit  partial 
to  Sheridan  last  summer.  I've  died  in  my  soul 
many  a  hot  day  last  haying  season.  Seen  her 
look  kinder  believin'  at  him,  when  he  was  makin' 
up  stories  to  beat  the  band.  I  couldn't  tell  the 
girl  there  ain't  nothin'  to  him,  if  she  couldn't  see 
for  herself. " 

Spen,  perhaps?"  said  Louis. 
Spen's  a  chicken  who  thinks  himself  a  swan. 
She  laughs  at  Spen,  but  she  don't  treat  him  serious. 
What  I  fear  is  the  future  when  she's  gone  to  her 


<( 


1  < , 


48  The  Hunter 

aunt.  To  tell  you  my  whole  heart,  Louis,  I'm 
first  with  Miss  Lake  at  the  present  moment;  but 
she  don't  love  me — oh,  she  don't  love  me.  She's 
young  and  self-willed,  and  she  don't  know  she's 
born." 

Louis  patted  Din's  shoulder.  There  was  not 
more  than  nine  years  between  the  two  men ;  and 
a  brotherly  tenderness  suddenly  enveloped  the 
hunter.  He  thought  of  all  the  love  tales  in  the 
forest,  and  how  many  happy  creatures  there  were 
in  spring;  and  he  wondered  why  this  poor  "hu- 
man" should  have  to  love  "just  one"  who  could 
not  love  him. 

"A  criss-cross  world,"  said  Louis,  stepping  over 
Bill's  outstretched  form.  "Much  overrated  in 
some  ways,  and  not  valued  at  its  full  worth  in 
others.  Get  up,  man,  and  look  at  the  stars!  The 
moon's  out,  and  if  you  listen  very  good  you  can 
hear  a  fox  bark.  The  air's  good,  and  the  breath 
of  nature  ain't  taken  from  you,  because  a  girl 
don't  jump  into  your  open  arms. " 

Din   rose  up,  shook  his  head  sadly  at  Louis, 


Bill  Din  Provides  49 

and  went  out  into  the  company  of  the  moon  and 
stars. 

"He's  got  the  night, "  said  Louis,  "and  the  wild 
calling  to  him.     He  ain't  utterly  lost. " 


CHAPTER  VI 


BILL'S   GOOD-BYE  TO   SILVIA 


LOUIS  had  a  nightmare  the  evening  before  the 
journey.  He  dreamed  that  he  had  nothing 
ready  for  the  voyage,  and  that  he  kept  losing  Miss 
Lake,  the  horses,  the  buggy,  or  the  baggage.  He 
awaked  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  see  day- 
light stealing  into  the  shanty ;  and  in  his  own  words 
he  trembled  at  the  "stark  madness"  of  the  re- 
sponsibility he  had  incurred. 

"How  I've  got  into  the  trap,  I  don't  know,  for 
trap  it  is,  as  bad  for  poor  Miss  Lake  as  anybody. 
Bill  Din  should  have  done  it." 

He  went  down  to  the  lake  to  bathe,  and  felt 

cheered  with  the  contact  of  the  water.     As  he 

looked  at  the  pine  trees  on  the  south  shore,  he 

said  to  himself: 

50 


Bill's  Good-bye  to  Silvia  51 

"Dear  ole  Ari-wa-kis,  I'll  be  back  huntin'  the 
day  after  to-morrow. " 

He  returned  and  dressed  himself  in  the  guide's 
romantic  costume.  It  was  easy  in  fit,  so  Louis 
forgot  that  it  was  not  his  old  suit. 

He  had  just  prepared  some  corn  mush,  and  was 
sitting  on  the  table  eating  it  from  a  basin,  with  a 
large  iron  spoon,  when  the  wheels  of  the  buggy 
broke  the  morning  silence,  and  Bill  Din  came 
running  into  the  kitchen. 

"I've  brought  Star,  and  I'll  change  the  harness 
and  git  Peggy,  while  you  finish  your  mush.  Louis, 
you're  a  good-looking  man,  and  it's  blamed  wicked 
to  deface  nature  with  dirt.  Why  don't  you  wash 
and  dress  like  the  rest  of  us,  and  keep  huntin'  in 
its  place?" 

"Don't  mention  huntin'  this  mornin',"  said 
Louis,  "if  you  do,  my  courage  will  eke  out  into 
my  shoes,  and  git  back  to  Mother  Earth.  We'd 
better  make  a  bee-line  for  Ari-wa-kis,  and  shoulder 
the  trouble  right  now. " 

The  two  men  got  into  the  buggy  and  drove  away. 


52  The  Hunter 

Ari-wa-kis  reached,  Bill  Din  ran  into  the  house. 
Running  was  all  he  could  do  this  morning,  for 
there  was  no  taking  things  calmly.  He  found 
Silvia  Lake  in  the  room  facing  the  water,  the  place 
where  she  had  spent  the  main  part  of  eighteen  wild 
years  of  liberty.  Bill  stopped  running  when  he 
saw  her.  She  was  sitting  at  the  table,  with  her 
face  buried  in  her  hands.  Her  hat  and  gloves  were 
lying  ready,  with  a  veil  to  tie  about  her  ears;  and 
she  looked  utterly  alone. 

Bill  bit  his  lips,  and  sent  a  wild,  unworded 
prayer  to  his  Creator  to  keep  him  from  trespassing 
further  on  the  sorrows  of  this  young  girl. 

He  waited  for  her  to  speak  to  him,  with  the  big 
tears  close  to  his  narrow  grey  eyes,  but  pushed 
back  by  a  hard  bitter  schooling  in  a  rough  world, 
which  brooked  no  displays  of  feeling.  Silvia  knew 
he  was  there  but  she  could  not  speak  to  him.  Her 
eyes  went  to  her  dog,  Simon,  who  was  now  licking 
her,  wherever  he  had  a  chance,  trying  to  make 
his  tongue  show  his  affection  to  his  beloved 
mistress. 


Bill's  Good-bye  to  Silvia  53 

By  and  by  the  girl  went  down  on  her  knees  and 
threw  her  arms  around  the  dog,  and  began  to  sob, 
and  wail  out :  "  Poor  ole  Dad !  When  we  had  him, 
Simon,  we  held  him  cheap.  And  it's  all  done 
now,  closed,  done,  and  sealed.  And  here's  the  new 
life,  and  I  ain't  ready  for  it.     Oh,  Simon,  Simon!' 

It  was  more  than  Bill  Din  could  bear,  and  all  the 
vows  he  had  made  to  strangle  his  love  until  her 
trouble  was  further  distant,  went  to  the  four  winds 
of  Heaven. 

" Don't,  Silvia,"  he  said.  " Don't,  my  beauti- 
ful, precious  girl !  You  ain't  any  need  to  go  a  step 
across  the  desert.  Here  I  am,  Bill  Din,  would 
marry  you  to-morrow,  and  would  buy  in  Ari- 
wa-kis  for  you,  and  if  the  dough  ain't  sufficient 
would  rent  it — until  the  amount  was  made  up. ' 

Silvia  looked  up  now,  straight  into  the  face  of 
Bill  Din.  There  was  not  only  the  lover  but  the 
father  in  the  man's  eyes. 

"Bill, "  she  said  very  softly,  "in  time  of  trouble, 
out  comes  the  gold  and  away  flies  the  tinsel. " 

"That's  right,"  he  said. 


54  The  Hunter 

"YouVe  been  gold,  Bill." 

"You  never  said  nothin'  in  answer  to  me?" 
Bill  asked  her. 

Silvia  was  still  stroking  the  dog,  and  she  put  her 
other  hand  into  Bill's  palm. 

"It  ain't  right,  Bill.  With  all  my  troubles  I'm 
still  a  kid." 

"  I  like  kids, "  said  Bill.  "Ivow  I'll  marry  the 
woman  that  calls  herself  a  kid.  That's  the  draw  to 
me — the  double  magnet — Silvia." 

"Kids  don't  know  their  own  minds,  Bill.  I 
ought  to  be  honest  with  real  gold  like  you've  been. 
I  love  Ari-wa-kis  next  to  me  father.  I  love  the 
shore  and  the  lake  and  the  growin'  plants  and  my 
wanderin's  and  my  liberty.  Bill,  Bill,  it's  my 
liberty  I  love,  and  I  ain't  going  to  cheat  a  real  man 
like  you.  It's  parting  with  Ari-wa-kis,  and  Simon, 
and  the  whole  life. " 

In  a  transport  of  misery  the  girl  embraced  the 
dog,  who  whined  wretchedly,  and  shed  a  tear  of 
agony  out  of  a  bluish-green  eye. 

Bill  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  and  looked 


Bill's  Good-bye  to  Silvia  55 

across  the  room  at  a  picture,  which  was  as  familiar 
as  his  own  hand. 

1 '  I  realize  what  you  mean,  kid.  Things  must  go 
their  own  slow  way.  Are  you  to  sell  Ari-wa-kis? 
I  could  rent  it  if  you  like?" 

"I'll  let  you  know,  Bill.  Perhaps  my  uncle 
will  buy  it,  and  then  everything  could  stay  as  it  is 
for  the  present.  You've  enough  with  your  horses 
and  the  grass-land.    You  don't  want  Ari-wa-kis. " 

"You'll  let  me  rent  it,  if  it  has  to  go,  Silvia?" 

"I  will,  if  my  uncle  won't  buy  it!  But  I'll 
pay  the  debts  within  a  year  if  I  can.  I'm  all  for 
learnin',  Bill,  and  schoolin'.  What  do  you  say 
to  me  goin'  to  college?" 

' '  It'll  just  spoil  you, ' '  said  Bill.  ' '  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  that  any  of  those  ole  colleges  can  make 
you  better  than  you  are?  'Tain't  schoolin'  as 
makes  ladies  and  gentlemen." 

"I'm  great  on  learnin',  all  the  same,  Bill,  and 
I'm  sure  going  to  college.  What  makes  you  so 
interestin'  to  hear  when  you  talk  about  ponies? 
'Cos  you're  so  truly  educated  on  a  pony's  nature. " 


56  The  Hunter 

She  picked  up  her  hat  and  pinned  it  on  her  head. 
Bill  took  the  veil  and  tied  it  under  her  chin  and 
round  her  neck. 

"You'll  let  me  dress  the  kid.  Kids  allow  it," 
he  said. 

And  so  Silvia  and  Bill  came  out  together;  to  the 
man  waiting  by  the  two  horses,  Star  and  Peggy. 

Simon  followed,  whining. 

"Shut  that  dog  up,"  cried  Louis  to  Bill,  "or 
shall  I?" 

"You,"  said  Bill  Din. 

Off  went  Louis  Buttress  and  he  spoke  so  gently 
to  the  dog  that  he  soon  had  him  following  him. 
He  returned  alone. 

Bill  had  put  Silvia  in  the  buggy  and  was  stand- 
ing close  by,  talking  eagerly. 

"Gittin'  a  look  in,  "  said  Louis  to  himself,  "poor 
fellow!  It's  an  unlucky  thing  to  feel  one  idea  too 
much  in  this  transitory  world.  Hi,  Bill!"  he 
shouted.  "Will  you  see  to  that  poor  dog  and  put 
him  up  real  good,  and  take  him  huntin'  till  I  come 
back  to  do  it?" 


Bill's  Good-bye  to  Silvia  57 

"Sure!"  said  Bill. 

He  clasped  Silvia's  hands  in  a  desperate  way  and 
then  came  to  Louis  Buttress,  and  said  savagely: 

"A'talkin'  of  that  dog  as  if  it  was  more  real  than 
me.  What  about  me?  What  about  me?  What 
am  I  to  do  with  myself?" 

"Go  hunting"  said  Louis,  "with  the  dog,  as  I 
told  you.     I'm  sure  sorry  for  you. " 

Bill  went  like  the  wind.  He  was  running  away 
from  his  joy  and  his  hope.  Louis  watched  him  in 
wonderment. 

What  did  Bill  say  to  you?"  inquired  Silvia. 

:  Just  a  word  about  the  dog,  Miss  Lake.  We're 
off  now,"  said  Louis. 

But  when  they  had  started  on  the  journey,  and 
Silvia  was  wrapped  in  a  profound  reverie,  her  eyes 
still  dim  with  a  night's  weeping,  Louis  was  saying 
to  himself : 

'Women  always  like  to  know  everything;  I've 
heard  my  father  say  my  mother  was  so,  but  it 
ain't  good  for  her  to  know  about  poor  Bill,  and  I 
ain't  tellin'  her  what  he  said  to  me.  " 


i  t- 


1 1 


CHAPTER  VII 

A   HALT   IN   PARADISE 

T  OUIS  BUTTRESS,  talking  to  the  ponies  and 
aware  that  the  tired  girl  had  fallen  asleep, 
was  a  happy  man.  Here  was  a  fine  portion  of  the 
journey  transacted,  and  not  a  word  expected  of 
him. 

"I'll  make  tracks  while  there's  the  safety  of 
silence,"  he  said,  glancing  at  the  girl  from  time  to 
time.  "She  looks  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  but 
there  lies  the  mystery.  When  she  begins  to  speak, 
I  feel  insufficient  someway.  My  life's  out  of  this 
line." 

The  desert  was  not  a  desert,  it  was  a  plateau  of 

desolate  rocks,  over  which  there  was  no  growth,  but 

a  few  scrubby  pines  and  weeds.     The  two  or  three 

roads  across  it  were  very  rough  travelling,  and 

some  of  them  dangerous.     Louis  had  arranged  to 

58 


A  Halt  in  Paradise  59 

take  the  short  but  severe  route,  and  as  soon  as 
he  left  the  country  behind  him,  and  mounted  up 
towards  the  desolate  land,  the  girl  aroused  herself 
and  looked  quickly  about  her. 

"Now  for  it,"  said  Louis  to  himself,  "it  keeps 
me  going,  racking  my  brains  to  mind  the  road  and 
here,  at  the  worst  moment,  comes  the  talking. 
Darn  it,  what  shall  I  say?" 

"Have  you  ever  been  here  before?"  asked  the 
girl. 

1 '  Scores  o'  times, ' '  said  Louis.  ' '  How  coarse  my 
voice  is!"  he  said  to  himself. 

"Ain't  it  weird?"  she  continued. 

"Yep,"  said  Louis.  " The  blamed  word's  wrong, 
I  know  it  is!"  he  thought. 

"Do  you  know  how  it  strikes  me?"  she  con- 
tinued. 

"  I  ain't  thought  of  it,  yet, "  said  Louis,  carefully. 

"Hell,"  said  Silvia. 

Louis  never  spoke,  for  he  was  thoroughly  aroused. 
So  she  could  think  of  hell,  could  she?  That  was  a 
great  surprise. 


60  The  Hunter 

"Look  right  across  there,"  said  the  girl,  "look 
at  them  jagged  rocks,  with  deep  dinges  in  them. 
What  a  colour!  Couldn't  you  think  imps  were 
jumpin'  in  and  out  of  hell's  ovens?" 

"Darn  me  I  could,  Miss  Lake.  I'm  thinkin'  of 
coons  and  foxes,  and  I  once  seen  a  skunk  in  one  of 
them  deep  dinges.  She  had  her  little  babies 
there." 

"I  call  a  skunk  an  imp,"  said  Silvia.  "Great 
limpin'  cats,  stalkin'  up  to  you  with  stupid  eyes 
gazin'  at  your  face  to  scare  you. " 

"You  know  them  all  right, "  said  Louis;  "do  you 
know  the  old  skunk  with  the  white  stripe  down  her 
back,  living  near  Ari-wa-kis?" 

" Sure, "  said  Silvia.     "You  too?" 

"Sure.  I  like  that  ole  lady,  she  and  me  have 
come  pretty  close;  and  she  ain't  anythin'  but 
friendship  for  me.     I  like  foxes  best. " 

"Why?"  asked  Silvia. 

"Somethin'  gamey  and  smart.  I  ain't  smart — 
'spect  that's  why  I  like  a  smart  animal.  Then  the 
freedom  of  the  little  foxes,  barkin'  in  the  woods, 


A  Halt  in  Paradise  61 

and  runnin'  like  the  wind,  and  gittin'  game  at 
hair-breadth  dashes.     0,  I  like  'em!" 

"I'd  like  to  be  a  fox,"  said  Silvia. 

"Why?"  asked  Louis. 

"So  I  could  run  wild, "  said  Silvia. 

Again  Louis  was  too  profoundly  interested  to 
venture  a  word.  He  had  lived  for  eighteen  years 
near  Silvester  Lake's  daughter,  and  he  had 
known  her  of  late  through  personal  encounters,  and 
through  Spen's  long  stories;  yet  where  did  this 
fit  with  his  ideas? 

The  road  was  very  bad  now,  but  instead  of 
finding  it  difficult  to  conduct  conversation  and 
drive  the  horses  Louis  began  to  find  the  way 
remarkably  easy.  Oil  had  got  into  everything, 
wheels,  road,  horses,  and  man. 

"Glad  she's  cheerin'  up,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"wait  till  we  encamp  for  the  evening  and  I'll  show 
her  some  sport.  She's  a  real  true  living  creature, 
full  of  nature,  and  now  I  see  why  Bill  Din  must 
have  her  for  his  wife. " 

He  gave  her  a  furtive  look.     She  was  gazing 


62  The  Hunter 

backwards,  towards  the  country  she  was  leaving, 
and  Louis  felt  the  pang  of  her  homesickness. 

"Being  made  as  you  are,"  he  said,  "pity  you 
ain't  stayin'  in  Ari-wa-kis." 

"Another  door  opens,"  said  Silvia. 

"What's  that  you  say?"  inquired  Louis. 

"I'm  great  on  learnin',"  said  Silvia.  "I  know 
you'll  be  surprised,  but  I'm  going  to  college,  and 
figure  on  doin'  a  lot  of  book  work  in  the  next  three 
years. " 

"A  pity!"  said  Louis. 

"I  thought  you'd  say  somethin'  of  that  sort.  I 
know  Bill  and  you  think  it  means  sawdust  and 
rags,  but  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Buttress,  it  means  every- 
thin'  to  Ari-wa-kis.  I'll  come  back  to  Ari-wa-kis, 
to  understand  foxes  as  I  never  understood  'em  in 
the  old  days.     That's  education. " 

"'Tain't  what  the  world  considers  it,"  said 
Louis.  ' '  It's  all  red-tape  knowledge  that  the  world 
teaches  in  the  schools — such  as  the  kingdom  that's 
gone  in  past  ages,  and  the  country  that's  not  yet 
discovered." 


A  Halt  in  Paradise  63 

"Well,  if  you  look  carefully  at  your  remark," 
said  Silvia,  "you'll  see  that  to  know  all  that 
far-away     knowledge     helps     what's     at     your 

hand." 

Louis  nearly  had  an  upset  on  a  big  stone,  and 
judged  it  wiser  to  direct  his  attention  to  near-at- 
hand  knowledge. 

The  sun  had  reached  meridian,  and  was  now 
turning  the  scale  for  the  afternoon  descent.  The 
buggy  was  in  the  midst  of  rocky  ledges,  and  the 
bare  bleak  situation  had  its  effect  on  the  two 
travellers.  The  sun  beat  down  without  shade,  and 
although  it  was  the  end  of  August,  the  heat  was 
great.  There  was  no  talking  done  for  the  next  two 
hours,  but,  strange  to  say,  Louis  found  the  silence 
as  easy  as  the  speech.  There  was  no  effort  in 
driving  Miss  Lake  through  the  desert. 

It  was  play -work. 

It  was  easier  than  driving  himself. 

1 '  She  helps  me  someway,  and  now  I  understand 
poor  Bill, "  he  thought. 

Evening  brought  the  surprise  that  Buttress  had 


64  The  Hunter 

counted  on  giving  to  Miss  Lake.  The  rocky  road 
fell  into  a  dell,  where  a  stream  ran,  and  was  ob- 
scured by  wood,  containing  many  oaks  and  some 
birches. 

Here  was  the  halt. 

' 'Paradise,"  said  Silvia. 

"Hell's  gone,"  said  Louis,  dismounting  and 
attending  to  the  horses. 

He  was  saying  to  himself:  "Should  I  help 
her  to  get  out?  No — better  not!  Don't  know 
how  to  go  about  it!"  So  he  patted  the  horses 
instead. 

"Is  this  the  camp?"  said  Silvia. 

"Sure,"  said  Louis. 

"Ain't  it  a  dandy  halt !  You  sure  know  the  way 
to  go.  Say,  there's  squirrels  in  that  wood.  Are 
you  goin'  huntin'?" 

"Wal'— that's— sure,  I'd  like  it— but " 


"Well,  why  not?  Go  and  hunt  our  supper  out 
o'  that  wood.  I'll  be  squaw  and  git  things  set  out. 
What's  in  that  big  basket?" 

"Fodder,"  said  Louis. 


A  Halt  in  Paradise  65 

"That's  stuff  for  horses." 

"Then  victuals — my  mother  called  it  victuals — 

but  I  thought  it  was  gone  out. " 

"Never  as  long  as  folks  git  hungry,"  said  Silvia. 
"You  git  off  huntin'  and  don't  talk  so  much — you 

talk  to  beat  the  band. " 

Louis  had  already  unharnessed  the  horses  and 
was  letting  them  go. 

"Me?"  he  exclaimed. 
'You,  Mr.  Buttress." 

Drat  it!"  said  Louis,  "I  wouldn't  a' thought  it 
for  a  minute." 

"Then  think  it  for  an  hour,  while  you  hunt,  and 
when  you  come  back,  Mr.  Buttress,  the  banquet  is 
served." 

Louis  went  off  into  the  bush  with  a  light  step. 
Gay  is  not  the  word.  He  was  buoyant  with  some- 
thing that  though  airy  and  arousing,  yet  ran  deep 
in  his  being. 

"A  wonderful  young  woman,"  he  said,  "and  I 
hope  Din  gets  the  mastery." 

He  crept  in  and  out  of  hazel,  and  sumac,  and 


«<■ 


n 


66  The  Hunter 

birch,  bent  on  good  victuals.  He  had  never  needed 
to  provide  for  another. 

1 '  She  ain't  an  easy  capture,  "  he  muttered, ' '  she's 
off  at  too  many  tangents,  and  casts  her  eyes  too  far. 
Woman's  better  held  firm — that's  what  father 
said  about  mother — and  he  appeared  to  have  had 
need  to  know  it.     Mother  was  boss. " 

And  Louis  espied  a  bird  that  he  wanted,  and  he 
fired,  and  he  got  it. 

"I  was  certain  sure  I'd  have  it,  and  I  have  it — 
nothin'  like  havin'  to  feed  someone.  It's  better 
than  yourself.  She's  kinder  sparkling  with  her 
tongue,  but  she's  tender  in  the  eye — like  these 
young  deer  with  the  velvet  looks.  She  means 
real  well  and  the  very  best.  Whatever  she  says 
and  does,  Silvia  Lake  means  the  best." 

He  stopped  to  look  at  a  squirrel,  who  was  scold- 
ing him  violently. 

"There's  a  bossy  woman,"  he  said,  "but  it's 
cheerful,  kinder  cheerful — father  missed  it,  when 
mother  went  from  him.  He  tol'  me  so  many  a 
time!" 


A  Halt  in  Paradise  67 

He  gazed  up  into  the  tall  fir  tree,  and  the  squirrel, 
a  grey,  plump  creature,  stopped  scolding.  Then 
an  "ohoy"  rang  out  in  a  woman's  clear  voice,  and 
Louis  started  like  one  guilty,  saying:  "Drat  it! 
Supper's  ready!  The  first  time  I  ever  took  food 
with  the  feminine  side  of  life — 'course  I  must  be 
late,  can't  do  nothin'  respectable." 

And  he  trudged  off. 


CHAPTER   VIII 


THE  HUNTER   CAN   TALK 


11  A  IN'T  it  a  pity  you're  such  a  good  shot?' 
remarked  Silvia. 

Buttress,  standing  before  Miss  Lake  with  the 
dead  bird  in  his  left  hand,  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

'Tor  the  bird's  sake  I  mean,"  said  the  girl, 
"It's  a  kinder  pity  we  had  to  kill  something." 

Louis  took  the  bird  and  placed  it  out  of  sight, 
and  returned  to  the  grass  where  Silvia  had  spread 
out  the  contents  of  the  basket. 

"If  you  ain't  against  the  bird  when  fried  in  the 
morning,  I'll  give  you  a  hunter's  breakfast. 
Grilled  bird  and  fried  berries — how  does  that 
sound  ? ' ' 

"You  ain't  praised  the  squaw  for  her  supper 
yet." 

68 


The  Hunter  can  Talk  69 

"It  ain't  for  me,  is  it?" 

''Now  you're  used  to  eatin'  alone,"  said  Silvia, 
"so  I'll  spoil  the  feast." 

"You  ain't  spoilin'  it  one  bit,"  said  Louis,  "I 
kinder  like  you  bein'  around." 

How  did  this  speech  come  out  ?  Louis  wondered 
at  himself,  but  concluded — "Instinct — my  father 
did  it— that's  it. " 

"I'm  pleased  you  don't  mind  me  eatin'  with  you 
— I'm  not  to  be  a  squaw  and  have  bones  thrown  to 
me — but  that's  enough  for  nonsense!  Mr.  But- 
tress, Tm  real  serious. " 

Louis,  drinking  coffee,  looked  into  her  grave 
eyes. 

I  know,"  he  said,  "that's  you,  Miss  Lake." 
'A  pretty  good  guess  of  me,  Mr.  Buttress,  'cos 
no  one  realizes  how  serious  I  am,  and  have  always 
been.  They  give  me  a  butterfly's  name,  but  I've 
been  right  through  everything,  and  seen  how 
hollow  the  world  is,  and  I  believe  you're  the  child, 
and  I'm  the  grown-up. " 

"You  can  believe  anything  you  like, "  said  Louis. 


<  < 


<< 


70  The  Hunter 

' '  Wal',  then,  I  don't  believe  that  you  packed  that 
hamper,  Mr.  Buttress." 

Louis  blinked.     "  'Twas  Bill  Din. " 

"Sure,  it  ain't  like  you,  and  nothin'  in  the  basket 
was  like  you,  neither!" 

"Shows  what  a  good  friend  you  have  in  Bill 
Din,  Miss  Lake." 

"It  sure  does!" 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then  Silvia  began 
again : 

"I'm  real  old,  and  my  life's  all  gone  to  pieces. ' 

Louis  looked  in  astonishment. 

"I  don't  care  for  nothin'  now  father's  gone. 
Only  'cept  the  one  thing  left — to  be  a  scholar. 
I'll  go  into  that  with  all  my  might,  and  you  and 
Bill  must  take  care  of  Star  and  Simon.  But  there's 
nothing  in  the  world,  Mr.  Buttress,  nothing  at  all! 
It's  as  empty — as  empty  as  all  the  nut  shells  near 
a  squirrel's  nest. " 

"That's  empty  enough — sure!"  said  Louis. 

"That's  true!  Have  you  never  felt  the  empti- 
ness of  the  world,  Mr.  Buttress?" 


The  Hunter  can  Talk  71 

''Never,"  said  Louis,  "that's  out  of  my  line." 

"What  do  you  think  about  life?" 

"Me?"  said  Louis.  "Think?  What  curious 
different  forms  it  takes,  and  how  the  one  law 
works  in  with  the  others,  making  the  forms  full  o' 
meaning. " 

"I  call  you  royalty,"  said  Silvia. 

"You're  wrong  there,"  said  Louis,  "our  family 
was  of  no  account  whatever — plumb  down  at  the 
bottom — my  father  was  a  poacher  in  Lincolnshire, 
and  the  vicar  of  that  parish,  where  he  lived,  was  as 
wise  as  Solomon,  for  he  told  my  mother  that  father 
was  'cureless' — I  mean  by  that  expression,  which 
was  a  good  one  belonging  to  my  mother,  that  'twas 
no  use  stopping  father  from  poachin' — so  our  vicar 
he  said  to  mother :  '  You  take  father  where  poach- 
in's  right,  and  thus  you  stop  the  sin.'  Now 
father  was  against  it,  for  he  loved  them  big  woods 
— he's  told  me  about  them  over  and  over  again — 
for  there  was  ivy  on  the  trees,  and  it  shone  and  was 
glossy,  but  sometimes  it  killed  the  tree,  but 
father  loved  them  living  or  dead ;  and  in  the  moon- 


72  The  Hunter 

light,  poachin'  game  was  what  he  called  pure 
joy,  so  he  had  the  feelings  bad.  He  said  he  fought 
mother  and  the  vicar,  he'd  rather  go  once  or  twice 
to  gaol  and  be  in  England,  but  he  says  the  Church 
and  the  woman  were  too  much  for  any  one  man 
to  fight  alone — and  he  found  himself  at  last  in 
U.  S.  A." 

"A  pretty  good  thing,  I  should  think  too!"  said 
Silvia.     "Game's  for  everybody,  I  should  say!" 

"But  the  queer  thing  is  that  father  don't  like 
it  when  it's  lawful — he  took  no  more  real  pleasure 
in  it  once  he  was  free  of  the  whole  woods.  '  Drat 
it,  Louis,'  he  says  to  me,  'there's  nothin'  to  run  up 
against,  the  hul  thing's  as  stupid  as  a  suet  puddin'.' 
My  father  never  liked  suet  puddin 's — they  were 
some  thin'  mother  made  pretty  often. " 

"You  are  a  good  talker,"  said  Silvia,  "they 
call  you  'the  silent  hunter' — I'd  call  you  'good 
company.'" 

"Wal',  I  don't  tell  these  things  as  a  rule,"  said 
Louis,  "they're  slippin'  out  unbeknownst.  I  feel 
Lincolny  to-day — some  days  I  feel  more  Lincolny 


The  Hunter  can  Talk  73 

than  others.  I  can  fancy  now,  in  this  pretty  dusk, 
with  the  smoke  wreathing  up  from  that  bit  of 
fire — I  can  fancy  I  can  see  that  village  church. 
Father  loved  that  church.  He'd  have  shot  any 
one  who  touched  a  stone  of  it. " 

"Then  he  was  religious ?"  said  Silvia. 

"He  never  went  into  church,  if  that's  what  you 
mean.  I  only  once  heard  him  say  a  prayer.  It 
was  a  coon,  and  he  was  hard  to  get.  'Lord,'  he 
says,  'let  me  have  'im. '" 

"I  like  your  father,"  said  Silvia,  "but  he 
sounds  kinder  queer.  I  believe  he's  a  bit  like  me. 
You  ain't  like  him,  you're  quieter,  I  should  think. 
Was  your  father  called  'Louis'?" 

"My  father  was  a  Timothy,  but  he  called  me 
Louis  after  the  Squire.  '  'Cos, '  he  says,  '  though 
the  Squire  nabbed  me  three  times,  and  I  was  a 
gaol  bird,  'twas  the  Squire's  gamekeeper  that  gave 
me  my  excitement;  so  now,  when  I'm  landed  on 
these  dull  shores, '  he  said,  '  these  wildernesses  of 
miserable  unpreserved  game,  I'll  remember  my 
joy  in  my  son, '  he  said,  '  and  I'll  have  him  Louis' — 


74  The  Hunter 

my  mother  grumbled  but  she  had  to  give  in  this 
time." 

"Well,  now,"  said  Silvia,  "I'll  stick  to  my  word 
— you  ain't  a  bit  like  your  father,  you're  more  like 
that  squire,  so  you're  more  like  royalty.  You 
make  your  own  laws,  and  keep  'em.  For  fear 
they  should  be  broken  you  stay  out  o'  the  crowd, 
so  you  miss  the  bitterness  of  the  world. " 

''I  make  no  laws,"  said  Louis,  "I  just  live. 
Everything's  right  to  me.  I  never  blister  after 
things  like  my  father  did,  and  like  all  these  men 
around  do.  What's  the  good?  Not  a  bit.  You 
can't  have  a  thing  by  wantin'  it ;  but  you  can  have 
what  ain't  yours  by  enjoy  in1  it.11 

He  jumped  up  to  put  some  more  wood  on  the 
fire,  and  then  went  to  pluck  the  bird.  Silvia 
wandered  around  the  outskirts  of  the  camping- 
ground;  and  as  he  watched  her,  stealing  about  in 
the  shadows,  a  little  joy  arose  in  his  heart  and  beat 
away  to  a  merry  tune.  How  he  had  loved  to  be 
listened  to!  The  first  woman  who  had  ever  lis- 
tened to  his  words! 


The  Hunter  can  Talk  75 

"  It  come  awful  easy, "  said  Louis,  as  he  plucked 
away,  "suppose  my  father  was  handy  of  tongue 
with  the  ladies,  and  his  father  before  that,  so  I 
don't  need  practice.  How  I  did  oil  it  off,  to  be 
sure !  I  wonder  what  Bill  Din  would  have  thought 
ofme!" 

Away  went  the  feathers  on  the  delicious  evening 
air,  not  so  delicate  nor  so  gossamer  as  Louis 
Buttress's  dreams! 

And  the  evening  crept  on,  and  he  said  to  him- 
self: "The  Almighty,  seeing  I  was  a  lonely  man, 
put  this  sweet  creature  into  my  charge,  to  cheer  me 
with  the  trust  implied.  And  now  before  the  dew 
falls,  I'll  make  up  that  tent!" 

This  done,  and  Silvia's  night  couch  arranged, 
the  girl  said  good-evening,  and  left  him. 

"Where  are  you  sleeping?"  was  her  last  remark. 
"I  feel  kinder  eerie,  and  you  must  be  where  I  can 
call." 

"The  buggy  seat,"  said  Louis,  pointing  with 
the  whip. 

"Good-night!"  she  called,   "we've  got  a  nice 


76  The  Hunter 

roof,  Mr.  Buttress,  and  fine  glitter  on  it,  with  all 
them  stars.     We  won't  forget  this  will  we?" 

"No,"  said  Louis. 

She  had  gone,  and  he  was  left  on  guard. 

"We  won't  forget  this, "  he  said  to  himself. 

The  owls  hooted,  there  were  creeping  things 
below,  and  fluttering  things  above.  There  was 
life  all  round,  and  it  was  all  very  friendly  to  the 
two  strangers  lodged  there.  Louis  knew  the 
wood's  occupants  were  friendly.  It  entered  into 
his  soul  to  feel  it. 

"Never  forget  it,"  he  said  to  himself. 

So  he  watched  all  night,  and  saw  beautiful 
changes  around  him ;  but  still  the  feathers  of  fancy 
flew  from  his  awakened  brain.  What  beautiful 
airy  feathers  they  were ! 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE  HUNTER  S  SURPRISE 


tDREAKFAST  was  a  great  success  from  the 
material  point  of  view.  The  bird  was  fried 
to  a  turn,  the  coffee  was  fragrant,  and  the  huckle- 
berries, fried  in  the  fat,  were  sweet  and  nutty. 
The  air  was  as  clear  as  crystal,  the  smoke  from  their 
fire  curling  up  in  spiral  waves,  unbroken  by  wind. 
Still  it  was  not  like  the  supper. 

Silvia  was  quiet,  and  Louis  was  grave. 

"  How  far  have  we  to  go  yet  ?"  she  asked. 

"The  town  will  be  reached  in  the   afternoon — 
only  about  twelve  miles  to  the  junction. " 

"I  wish  I  was  going  back  to  Ari-wa-kis, "  said 

she. 

I'll  take  you  back, "  said  Louis. 

It  ain't  a  bit  o'  use,  Mr.  Buttress.     Life's  got 

77 


u  T»1 


11 


II 


11 


78  The  Hunter 

to  be  faced.     I  ain't  goin'  to  play  soft.     Where 
will  you  leave  me?" 

"Where  you  wish." 
At  the  depot?" 

Sure — if  you  ain't  afraid  of  the  folks  a'seein' 
you  with  an  old  rag  like  me. " 

"You're  makin'  a  big  mistake  to  talk  so  about 
yourself,  Mr.  Buttress.  It  ain't  good  for  you. 
Don't  you  do  it  again.  Think  o'  this — people's 
goin'  to  believe  what  you  say.  Everybody  be- 
lieves what  you  say,  Mr.  Buttress,  you  say  things 
so  natural;  so  don't  lead  'em  astray,  callin'  your- 
self off  as  a  nobody. " 

"You  think  I'm  a  somebody,  do  you?"  inquired 
Buttress. 

"'Course!" 

"That's  somethin'  to  consider  on  the  lonesome 
fall  nights. " 

"You  ain't  never  lonesome,  are  you?"  inquired 
Silvia. 

"I  have  my  off  days,  though  I'm  mostly 
of    a     quiet     contentment    without    any    fancy 


The  Hunters  Surprise  79 

work    to    adorn    it.      But    my    off    days    come 


in." 


"Mine'll  all  be  off  days,  gettin*  about  in  a  silly 
old  town,  with  folks  a'danderin'  round  in  the  latest 
costumes.  I'll  stick  to  the  learning.  Come,  Mr. 
Buttress,  look  about  you,  we'd  best  be  going. " 

"  So  we  had, "  said  Louis,  "  so  we  had. " 

Things  were  packed,  and  ensconced  in  the  buggy. 
Miss  Lake's  box  and  suitcase  were  placed  on  the 
top,  to  be  ready  for  lifting  out;  and  the  time  had 
come  to  leave  the  grove. 

"It  looks  a  shame  to  go  away,"  said  Silvia. 
"  I  could  a'put  in  a  good  month  here,  playm* 
around  amongst  the  woods  and  things." 
Same  could  I,"  said  Buttress. 
Your  royalty's  limited,  you  see,"  said  Silvia, 
as  she  put  her  foot  on  the  buggy  step.  "There's 
something  you  can't  do,  though  you  are  Mr. 
Buttress,  Master  Hunter. " 

"Then  it's  best  to  do  the  other  things,"  said 
Louis,  following  her,  "and  then  you  feel 
masterly. " 


11 


u 


8o  The  Hunter 

And  so  they  said  good-bye  to  the  wooded  shelter, 
and  the  morning  was  spent  in  careful  driving,  but 
very  little  talking.  At  length  the  road  began  to 
travel  downwards,  and  they  came  upon  an  ugly 
and  steep  descent. 

Silvia  held  her  hat  on  her  head.  Buttress  was 
not  so  sure  that  it  needed  this  help.  He  had  an 
indistinct  feeling  that  the  girl's  eyes  were  blind 
with  tears. 

Some  magpies  wheeled  over  their  heads. 

" That's  unlucky,"  said  she. 

"No,  it  ain't,"  said  Louis;  "not  in  our  family. 
Father  said  that  mother  and  him  had  the  few 
turns  of  good  fortune  as  was  ever  given  to  them, 
after  seein'  and  talkin'  about  a  cluster  of  magpies. 
Now  that's  a  real  good  sign.  I'll  go  and  see  Bill 
Din  when  I  get  landed  back " 

"Don't,  don't!"  she  said.  "Don't  talk  of 
the  other  side — I  ain't  gotten  much  pluck  this 
mornin'." 

"Sure!  I'm  clumsy  as  an  old  rhinoceros.  I 
sure  wish  you  were  with  a  better  man. " 


The  Hunter's  Surprise  81 

"The  man's  all  right,"  said  Silvia;  "it's  the 
new  life  that's  all  wrong,  Mr.  Buttress!" 

She  looked  into  his  face  as  she  spoke,  and  the 
imploring  expression  of  her  eyes,  as  they  scanned 
him  through  and  through,  produced  a  surprising 
moment  in  the  hunter's  life.  He  had  felt  throbs 
of  pity  for  innocent  deaths  in  the  forest ;  but  the 
desire  that  arose  in  him  now  was  like  a  moving, 
living  being,  shouting  for  the  girl's  liberation. 

The  left  hand  which  was  free  from  the  reins 
came  down  on  her  wrist,  and  held  it  like  a  vise: 
"Come  back  with  me, "  he  said. 

"Where  to?"  she  asked. 

"Home,"  he  said. 

As  he  uttered  the  word  which  had  never  fallen 
from  his  lips  since  his  father's  death,  the  hunter 
started  violently,  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 

"What's  the  matter?"  cried  Silvia. 

' '  What  ? "  he  cried.  ' '  What  ?  A— I  don't  know 
how  to  say  it — what  a  darned  idiot  I  am — words 
get  out  so — wal',  Ari-wa-kis  ain't  closed,  it's  yours 
still!" 


82  The  Hunter 

"Father's  gone — that  was  home,"  said  Silvia. 

Louis  nodded  and  gulped  down  some  further 
efforts  of  speech,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  way  there 
was  silence. 

The  depot's  clanging  and  clicking,  the  screaming 
of  its  moving  trucks,  the  ringing  of  an  engine  bell, 
prepared  the  girl  for  the  end.  She  began  fastening 
another  button  of  her  glove,  and  rearranging  the 
veil  which  Bill  had  tied  so  carefully  on  the  morning 
of  the  journey. 

Louis  looked  askance.  Every  moment  was 
heavy  as  lead. 

He  saw  that  the  girl  was  pale,  and  that  her  lips 
twitched  in  her  effort  to  sustain  a  calm  demeanour. 
He  could  not  speak,  and  he  spent  the  time  thinking 
over  and  over  again:  "What  shall  I  say?  What 
shall  I  do?" 

The  train  rolled  in,  and  the  two  figures  made  for 
the  rear  car. 

Buttress  put  the  luggage  on  board,  and  got  off 
again.     The  car  conductor,  seeing  a  pretty  girl, 


The  Hunter's  Surprise  83 

was  ready  with  his  helping  arm,  far  readier  than 
the  slow  Louis;  then  Silvia,  put  on  board  by  the 
train  pilot,  returned  to  the  door,  and  descended  a 
step. 

"Mr.  Buttress,"  she  called. 

He  was  standing  like  an  image  on  the  rails,  but 
moved  at  her  word  and  blinked  his  eyes. 

She  leaned  down,  to  reach  some  nearer  place 
than  the  car  allowed  her,  and  said  to  him : 

"I  ain't  a  bit  polite,  and  what  you've  done  for 
me  goes  beyond  thanks.  I  said  the  world  was 
hollow  last  night,  but  I  reckon  I've  found  some 
good  kernels  in  Ari-wa-kis. " 

He  waved  his  hand,  for  the  train  was  starting, 
and  he  vividly  remembered  the  last  time  he  had 
done  it.  It  all  came  back  as  he  waved,  and  he 
thought  that  her  smile  deepened,  until  she  looked 
glad  and  happy. 

"She  makes  me  live,"  he  muttered.  "I  don't 
know  that  I  ever  breathed  till  she  I  saw — down 
on  the  south  side  of  Ari-wa-kis — beautiful  and 
true,  and  true  to  life." 


CHAPTER  X 


BILL   AND  LOUIS 


DIN,  having  seen  smoke  from  the  hunter's 
chimney,  hardly  allowed  the  fire  to  warm 
the  room  before  he  was  there. 

He  found  Louis  sitting  on  the  wood-box  peeling 
an  apple. 

The  contents  of  the  journey's  needs  were  strewn 
all  over  the  room.  The  smell  of  acrid  smoke  was  so 
pungent  that  it  caused  the  eyes  to  smart.  Bill's 
hunting  hat  was  on  the  table,  and  the  bag  of  apples 
at  Buttress's  feet  showed  that  he  was  sampling 
some  fruit,  for  the  purposes  of  the  fruit-grower. 

"Take  an  apple,"  said  Louis. 

Din  picked  one  carefully  from  the  huddled  heap, 

and  sitting  on  the  table  as  near  the  hunter  as 

possible,  he  began  as  carefully  to  peel  the  apple. 

84 


Bill  and  Louis  85 

"Where  did  you  get  hold  of  this  wonder?"  he 
inquired. 

1 '  In  a  wood.  A  bird's  dropped  the  seed  I  should 
think;  ain't  it  mellow  and  sweet?  I'll  have  that  in 
the  orchard,  if  I  can  manage  it." 

"You've  washed  yourself  this  mornin',"  said 
Din. 

"So  I  have,"  said  Louis. 

"It's  all  over  now,  Louis." 

"I've  taken  her, "  said  the  hunter. 

"Do  it  in  a  day?" 

"She  got  the  Chicago,  due  in  three  o'clock." 

"That  was  racin'  it." 

"She  wished  it." 

"Good  for  you,"  said  Din  approvingly. 

Louis  got  up  from  the  wood-box  and  rilled  his 
kettle.  The  two  dogs,  Simon  and  Testy,  were 
making  friends;  for  Bill  had  brought  Miss  Lake's 
favourite  at  his  pony's  heels,  and  the  animal  had 
followed  him  into  the  kitchen. 

"Them  dogs  will  fit  all  right, "  said  Louis.  "I'll 
have  no  trouble  with  'em,  they're  above  suspicion." 


86  The  Hunter 

"I'll  keep  Simon,"  said  Din. 

"She  tol'  me  to,"  said  Louis. 

Din  got  up  and  came  close  to  the  hunter. 

"Your  blood's  cool,"  he  said;  "there's  nothing 
to  hinder  my  keeping  him.  When  she  comes 
back  I'll  tell  her  I  took  him,  'cos  you  was  un- 
derstand^', and  knew  how  I  felt  that  I  must  have 
him." 

"That  won't  do,"  said  Louis,  "I  said  I'd  take 
care  of  the  dog,  an'  I  will!" 

"What  do  you  call  that  feeling?"  inquired  Din. 

"Don't  know,"  said  Louis. 

"Wal',  I  call  it  part  of  the  darned  cruelty  of  the 
hunter.  You  don't  want  to  have  it  around  because 
of  her,  but  in  a  fit  of  blazin'  stubborn  hardness, 
you'll  stick  to  the  dog,  'cos  she,  only  wantin'  the 
dog  to  be  happy,  named  him  off  to  youV 

"You've  got  Star,"  said  Louis. 

1 '  'You've  got  Star, ' "  cried  Din.  ' '  I  like  to  hear 
that  from  you,  Louis.  Star  was  given  to  her  by 
me,  and  I  bought  her  in.  The  dog's  far  nearer  to 
her  than  the  horse. " 


Bill  and  Louis  87 

Louis  began  to  whistle.  The  tune  was:  When 
I  was  Bound  Apprentice  in  Famous  Lincolnshire. 
He  hummed  it  well. 

"You're  gettin'  musical,"  said  Din;  "there's  a 
Choral  Society  in  town,  with  a  genteel  professor  in 
1  doh-ra-mey . '  Ain't  you  goin'  to  swell  the  Thanks- 
giving Festival?  Practices  have  begun  already. 
What  with  a  washed  face,  and  the  pride  of  being 
guide  to  the  best  lady  in  U.  S.  A.,  you'll  be  at  the 
top  of  the  cream!" 

A  dull  red  spread  over  Louis's  face.  The  blue 
eyes  moved  uneasily,  and  with  evident  pain  be- 
hind them.  He  threw  down  the  saucepan  he  had 
taken  up:  "Din!"  he  said  appealingly. 

The  young  man  came  off  the  table,  waiting  for 
the  next  word. 

Louis  struggled  with  some  emotion,  which  ap- 
peared beyond  his  management ;  but  finally  he  got 
out  three  words : 

"Take  the  dog!" 

Din  hung  his  head.  "I'm  a  blasted  imperious 
devil,"  he  said,  "and  you  know  it,  Louis, — well 


88  The  Hunter 

you  know  it!  Darn  me  if  I'll  take  Simon.  You 
shall  have  him,  she  gave  him  to  you;  only  Louis, 
for  God's  sake  think  of  it — of  what  this  awful  love 
means.  Do  you  think  it  improves  any  man,  to 
feel  that  if  someone  has  any  advantage  with  the 
girl  he  worships,  he's  like  to  strangle  him  out  of 
the  way?" 

''It's  awful,"  said  Louis. 

"It's  more  than  that,  Louis.  Take  my  tip. 
Don't  you  soften  from  that  happy  hunting  life  of 
yours;  don't  wash  your  face,  or  you  may  have  to 
wash  your  heart.  Louis,  that's  you,  an  innocent, 
good  friend  like  you,  that  got  my  ironical  bitter- 
ness up!  What  do  you  think  I've  felt  for — Sheri- 
dan— and  even  Spen?" 

And  the  young  man  turned  away  in  a  fit  of 
terrible  bitterness. 

Louis  looked  at  him,  with  eyes  that  opened 
wider  in  sensitive  appreciation  of  suffering. 

"It's  queer,"  he  said,  "mortally  queer." 

No  word  came  from  Din,  so  after  a  minute  the 
hunter  added :  ' '  She  liked  the  way  you  packed  the 


Bill  and  Louis  89 

basket — she  knew  it  wasn't  a  fumblin'  ole  stick 
like  me." 

Din  turned  round;  and  into  his  hard,  grey  eyes 
there  swept  a  heavenly  moisture  of  salt.  It 
relieved  the  air.  He  rolled  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling, 
he  smiled,  he  threw  up  the  knife  and  caught  it  in 
his  hand. 

"You're  handsome,  Buttress.  If  folks  only 
knew  what  makes  people  good  lookin'  there'd  be 
more  of  'em  in  church.  You're  better  than  a 
bishop  to  me.  Louis,  I'll  tell  you  of — never  mind, 
there  ain't  a  need  for  talk;  but  we'll  eat  together, 
like  brothers,  v/ill  we  ?  Will  you  break  bread  with 
me?" 

So  two  men  sat  eating  bread  and  meat  together, 
and  there  was  peace  in  the  air;  but  when  Bill  got 
up  to  go,  he  left  Simon  behind  him. 


CHAPTER   XI 


SILVIA'S  LETTER 


D 


ON'T  stand  at  the  door,  Din, "  said  Buttress. 
It  was  evening,  and  although  it  was  dusk, 
it  was  plain  to  see  that  Bill  Din  was  in  a  furious 
temper.     He  carried  some  letters  in  his  hand. 

''Don't  stand  at  the  door,  Din,"  said  Buttress, 
again. 

He  waved  him  in  with  his  arm,  and  slowly  as 

if  he  were  blind,  Bill  came  into  the  kitchen.     He 

brought  the  smell  of  the  damp  earth,  for  he  had 

ridden  five  miles  from  the  town,  with  the  night 

dews  already  moistening  the  hollows.     He  brought 

something  else   besides   the    damp  earth  on  his 

shoes,  and  a  moth  or  two,  and  some  leaves  and 

grass. 

Louis  felt  that  it  was  a  very  cold  night. 

90 


Silvia's  Letter  91 

"Shut  the  door,  Din,"  he  said. 

It  was  flung  back  with  a  bang.  Simon,  who  was 
friendly  with  the  pony  boy,  rose  up  and  came  to 
him,  but  on  getting  near  him  and  sniffing,  the  dog 
walked  back  to  the  hunter,  eyeing  the  visitor 
shrewdly  with  his  blue-green  eyes. 

"You  can  have  supper  with  me,"  said  Louis. 

Bill  shook  his  head  and  began  sorting  out  the 
letters  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"I  brought  your  mail  along  of  mine, "  he  said. 

"Oh!"  said  Louis. 

The  mail  was  put  down,  one  by  one. 

"'Spect  I'll  hear  from  Kink  in  Chicago,"  said 
Louis,  "I  wrote  him  to  catalogue  prices  for  me. 
The  Kansas  City  man  does  the  main  buying  from 
me,  but  I  asked  Kink  for  information." 

Din  had  laid  down  two  letters,  and  the  third  was 
in  his  hand.  He  turned  it  over  and  over  in  his 
fingers,  and  would  not  lay  it  down. 

Louis  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  and  Din  said 
suddenly:  "There's  a  letter  for  you — from  Miss 
Lake." 


<  I 


<  ( 


<  ( 


92  The  Hunter 

Louis  was  on  his  feet  in  a  minute. 
;  A  letter — forme?" 
For  you,"  said  Din,  still  holding  it. 
:A    letter,"    cried    Louis.     "Ain't    that    fine? 
Sure,  I'm  pleased!     Me?     Give  it  me,  Din." 

"Look  here,"  said  Din,  holding  the  letter  high 
above  his  head;  "you'll  read  this  aloud  to  me,  you 
will!" 

"That's  a  threat,"  said  Louis.  "I  don't  like 
it." 

"Then  it  goes  into  the  fire,"  said  Bill. 

"No,  it  doesn't, "  said  Louis.  "I'm  a  mild  man, 
but  I'm  a  strong  one.  Come  out  o'  that,  Bill  Din, 
and  hand  me  my  own  mail.  You  forget  your 
feeling  for  Miss  Lake.  You  own  to  being  partial 
to  her  and  now  you'll  burn  her  mail. " 

"No,  I'll  not  burn  her  mail,"  said  Din,  "she 
shall  write  to  whom  she  likes.  That  was  a  trick 
on  my  part  to  see  what  you'd  say,  Buttress.  But 
there  it  is!     You're  as  keen  as  me  about  it!" 

He  threw  it  to  the  hunter,  who  caught  it  skil- 
fully, and  put  it  in  his  over-all  pocket. 


Silvia's  Letter  93 

"  Read  it,  and  tell  me  how  she  is. " 

"No,"  said  Louis,  "that's  the  first  and  the  last 
and  the  final  of  it.  I'm  in  no  mood  to  read 
any  thin'/ ' 

Din  got  up  and  went  to  the  door,  for  in  America 
the  dusk  has  no  sooner  come  and  it  is  gone.  Dark- 
ness had  fallen  in  these  few  minutes ;  and  when  the 
door  was  reopened,  Star  was  heard  to  whinny. 

"Is  that  poor  beast  out  in  the  cold?"  said  Louis. 
"You'd  keep  her  tied  up  to  a  fence  for  an  hour 
or  two  while  you  let  your  passions  overhaul 
you.  Gee!  I'd  be  ashamed  to  be  run  by  my 
moods!" 

"Better,"  cried  Din,  "better  ten  millions  of 
times  to  be  run  by  moods  than  to  have  none  to 
quench — that's  all  you  are,  Louis — that's  all! 
You  get  everything  that  a  human  creature  could 
want,  and  you  feel  it  all  in  a  see-saw,  treadmill  sort 
of  way.  You'll  keep  that  letter  in  your  pocket  till 
you've  done  your  night's  huntin',  and  written  to 
your  old  fur  merchants  in  Chicago  and  Kansas. 
And  then  you'll  read  it  and — and — wonder  why 


94  The  Hunter 

she's  written — and  give  one  o'  your  easy  smiles, 
and  throw  it  in  the  fire." 

The  room  was  too  dark  for  Din  to  see  that 
Louis  was  trembling  with  excitement.  His 
voice  quivered  slightly  as  he  said,  "Will  I,  Bill 
Din?" 

"Unless,"  said  Din,  "you've  changed  and  have 
been  deceivin'  me,  and  Miss  Lake's  turned  your 
nature  out  o'  its  course?" 

There  was  no  answer  to  this,  and  Din  waited  for 
one,  straining  his  ears  in  the  darkness.  Then,  with 
a  gasp  of  rage,  he  banged  the  door  and  went  after 
the  pony. 

Louis  remained  listening,  until  he  heard  Star's 
trot,  trot,  out  of  the  yard.  Then,  with  eager 
fingers,  he  lit  the  oil  lamp,  which  was  bracketed 
near  the  door,  and  taking  it  from  the  shelf,  placed 
it  on  the  kitchen  table.  He  was  humming  softly 
to  himself,  as  he  placed  the  light  and  brought  out 
the  letter. 

"Now  for  it,"  he  said;  "them  silly  ole  passion 
fools  can  wag  their  heads,  until  good  Doomsday, 


Silvia's  Letter  95 

but  I'll  sure  enjoy  the  letter  that  this  good  girl 
has  written  to  me. " 

He  cut  the  envelope  with  a  pen-knife  and  opened 
the  page  with  reverent  care:  "In  the  main  it 
looks  much  like  Kink's  handwritin',  "he  said,  "but 
I  expect  she'll  put  things  on  another  footing  than 
Kink." 

And  he  began  to  read. 


Dear  Mr.  Buttress  ("Same  as  Kink,"  said  Louis, 
"no  different.") 
I  have  written  to  tell  you  that  I  am  caught  right 
into  the  bustle  of  city  life  and  feel  kinder  choked  for 
some  pure  air,  and  less  manners.  You  may  think  this 
queer  of  me,  but  I  told  you  I  was  some  like  your  dear 
old  father  who  would  go  to  prison  to  be  free  of  his 
rights.  You  see  if  folks  consider  style  to  the  furthest 
limit,  it  is  sure  going  to  put  out  freedom?  But  as  Bill 
Din  would  say,  "  I'll  stick  it  out — for  pure  cussedness." 
And  I  mean  that  I  am  enjoying  the  books,  though  it 
is  hard,  and  I  feel  kinder  languid  on  these  fall  days. 
I  look  at  the  blue  sky  and  think  of  the  woods,  and  I 
feel  a  passion  rise  in  me  to  go  back  on  the  minute,  but 
no,  my  good  angel  says  to  me :  ' '  Stick  it  out ' '  and '  *  you 
will  get  woods  double  when  you  do  go  back. "  I  sure 
had  to  write  to  get  over  a  blue  spell,  which  I  found 
myself  wrapped  in,  when  I  came  out  of  college  this 


96  The  Hunter 

afternoon.     I  thought  of  you  and  I  felt  you  would 
know  all  about  the  feelings. 

Yours,  with  deep  respect  to  your  Majesty 
The  King  of  the  Woods, 

Silvia  Lake. 


'Sure!  What  a  wag  she  is!'  cried  Louis. 
"She  ends  good  and  spirited,  a'tracing  back  on  the 
old  scent  of  our  first  tracks  together.  A  kinder 
welcome  treat  for  an  ole  wild  hunter!" 

And  he  put  the  letter  back  in  the  envelope,  and 
placed  it  in  the  bracket,  with  some  other  dusty 
business  letters. 

But  whether  it  was  an  excellent  memory,  or 
that  the  letter  held  the  man,  certain  it  is  that  in  a 
day  or  two  Buttress  could  repeat  the  whole  of  it, 
from  beginning  to  end,  and  used  to  do  it,  as  he 
hunted  and  fished.  Once  or  twice  he  lost  the  trail, 
through  a  rambling  thought  after  Silvester  Lake's 
daughter.  He  blamed  his  rod,  the  gun,  or  the 
turn  in  the  woods.  Sometimes  he  blamed  nature's 
defences;  but  he  never  blamed  the  woman. 


CHAPTER  XII 


THE  HUNTER  AWAKES 


COMING  out  of  the  spell  of  his  hunting  adven- 
tures, Louis  was  tackling  a  new  problem. 

"I  can  make  good  money,  and  I've  got  brains. 
Why  can't  I  advance?  Mother  would  say  'to 
the  better  classes' — father  must  have  been  ag- 
gravating to  mother.  He  was  sure  a  pleasure- 
loving  individual — sure  am  I!" 

And  without  being  aware  of  it,  Buttress  was 
altering  his  life.  Cleaning  things,  eating  with 
more  care,  mending  his  clothes,  saving  his  money — 
the  hardness  of  it  did  him  good — as  a  cold  bath 
awakens  the  drunkard's  wits. 

Louis  slept  better,  for  there  was  something  to 

live  for  when  he  got  up,  so  he  went  to  bed  much 

more  tired.     He  lost  the  rheumatic  pain,  which 
7  97 


98  The  Hunter 

had  been  constantly  in  his  joints  for  the  last  five 
years,  and  he  moved  quicker  and  more  easily  about 
his  work. 

"My  rheumatiz  was  lazy  man's  pain,"  he  said 
one  day.  "Seems  I've  just  awakened  in  time. 
Justice  sits  as  tight  as — as  corn  on  a  cob. " 

Then  one  day  in  winter,  when  everything  around 
the  log  hut  was  glittering  with  diamond  lights, 
for  the  sun  was  shining  on  snow  which  was  as  com- 
pact as  salt,  and  when  the  pine  trees  held  their 
white  chunks  firm,  through  the  heat  of  the  day,  a 
sense  of  huge  inspiration  arose  in  the  man. 

He  had  come  in  with  some  game,  and  had  stood 
at  the  door,  looking  west.  The  afternoon  was 
drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  silent  beauty  of  the 
untrodden  woods,  in  their  white  carpet,  now  turn- 
ing gold  in  the  sun,  again  violet  in  the  shadows — 
excited  some  deeper  sense  of  his  whole  life. 

What  did  his  life  mean  to  him? 


it  TV 


I'm  sure  happy, "  he  said,  "learnin'  more  every 
day,  and  what  she  said  about  books  helpin'  com- 
mon life  is  gospel  true.     To  wash  my  face  was  once 


The  Hunter  Awakes  99 

a  burden — now  I  kinder  like  it.  The  Almighty's 
liftin'  me  out  o'  the  rough!" 

He  stepped  farther  from  his  door,  and  saw  the 
stains  of  the  red  sun,  in  orange  and  flame  colour, 
upon  the  banks  of  snow  leading  to  the  forest.  He 
saw  Ari-wa-kis,  green  and  frozen  in  the  hollow; 
and,  as  he  looked,  a  warm  radiance  stole  all  about 
the  hunter's  heart ;  and  he  said : 

"She  it  was  that  made  me  uncommon  glad.  I 
was  always  a  happy  man,  but  from  then  I  date  un- 
common gladness.  I  seen  then  that  there  was  more 
to  follow — we  ain't  goin'  to  git  shute  o*  life  with 
dying. " 

Louis  glanced  once  more  at  Ari-wa-kis,  and  then 
returned  to  his  kitchen. 

It  was  exceedingly  bare. 

It  was  empty. 

It  was  empty  as  the  shells  near  a  squirrel's  nest ! 

He  smiled  faintly,  and  then  his  heart  beat -like 
a  hammer,  and  said  to  him: 

"Have  her  yourself,  bring  her  home — make  her 
yours." 


ioo  The  Hunter 

Just  that  and  nothing  more. 

The  hunter  could  hardly  grasp  the  daring  leap 
his  heart  had  made.  But  the  heart,  having 
reached  the  brain,  went  on  again: 

"  Do  it !  You  can  do  it  easy.  They  all  want  her 
— Bill  Din — Spen — they  all  want  her.  Better  and 
better!  Sport  here!  We'll  see!  The  hunt  lies 
before  the  hunter." 

He  threw  the  game  on  a  chair,  and  went  to 
replenish  the  fire. 

"The  hunt  lies  before  the  hunter,"  he  said  again. 

And  then,  as  he  worked  and  moved  about  the 
kitchen : 

"What  did  my  father  say?  'Louis,  a  man 
knows  he'll  have  the  game  he  wants — he  sees  the 
way — he  knows  the  creature — he  sympathizes  till 
he  knows  the  track  she  takes.  She's  his  before 
he's  got  her,  'cos  he's  learned  her  till  she's 
his.'" 

"'That's  why  poachin's  right,'"  said  Buttress, 
quoting  his  father  again.  "That  was  game, 
of  course.      Now   it's   a  different  matter.      The 


The  Hunter  Awakes  101 


woman.  Still — there's  a  lot'c?  knowledge  "in  the 
hunt*"  •  -  &  »    Hv      ■::•'•• 

And  then  Louis  went  as  far  as  the  thought  of 
the  capture;  and  drew  within  himself: 

"She's  a  sporting  creature,  free  of  the  wild  like 
the  deer,  or  the  '  cute,  little  foxes — she  don't  want 
capturin'." 

And  when  Louis  had  got  his  kettle  singing  and 
had  fed  his  chickens,  he  was  saying: 

"Captured  by  true  love,  her  freedom  would  be 
complete." 

And  he  said  this  over  and  over  again,  and  became 
madly  happy,  and  wondered  what  he  should  do  first. 

"  Wal',  in  good  hunting,  when  the  difficulties  are 
steep,  see  first  that  the  gear's  all  right.  That's 
the  ticket.  I'll  sure  go  through  the  mill,  makin' 
myself  fit  for  the  woman.  I'll  be  everything  I 
ought  to  be. " 

And  that  night,  which  was  a  Friday,  the  first 
week  in  December,  Buttress  replied  to  the  letter 
received  in  September: 


102  The  Hunter 

Dear  Ivliss  Lake, 

Ycur  land  word s  rec^lvecl  and  stored  up.  Am  learn- 
ing some  like  you.  Found  some  verse  that  sure  spells 
you.  Think  it  goes  elegant,  and  my  father  said  it 
off,  on  winter  nights,  to  pass  the  time  away ;  so  when  I 
found  it  in  an  old  book  I  made  a  copy  for  the  lady : 

Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep. 

Hesperus  entreats  thy  light 

Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose. 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close; 

Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight, 

Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart, 

And  thy  crystal  shining  quiver; 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever. 

Thou  who  makst  a  day  of  night, 

Goddess  excellently  bright. 

They  call  the  writer  Ben  Jonson,  and  I  sure  wish  that 
I  could  lay  it  to,    • 

Louis  Buttress. 


The  Hunter  Awakes  103 

The  letter  was  sent  away  next  morning  to 
Chicago,  where  Silvia  Lake  was  now  living;  and 
Buttress's  life  went  forward  with  a  will.  And  he 
cared  no  more  for  Bill  Din's  absence;  but  when  he 
met  the  man  on  Christmas  Eve,  in  the  town,  high 
above  Ari-wa-kis  and  the  woods,  they  looked  hard 
at  one  another. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Bill.  ''Will  you  forgive  me, 
Louis?" 

"Never  held  anythin'  to  forgive,"  said  Louis. 
"Man's  nature  has  its  ups  and  downs,  and  I  don't 
blame  you — feelin'  some  like  yourself  these  days. " 

Bill  Din  did  not  take  this  remark  seriously. 

"I'm  blamed  foolish,"  he  said;  "you  ain't  the 
man  to  think  o'  these  things,  and  I'm  hittin'  you 
for  nothin'." 

Buttress  put  his  hand  on  Bill's  shoulder. 

" So  far  the  thought's  been  absent  from  me,  Bill; 
but  the  way  you  monkeyed  round  me,  with  your 
jealous  feelin's,  why  it's  set  me  on  the  track.  Can't 
escape  it  now.  Count  me  an  enemy  from  to- 
day.    I'm  in  the  hunt. " 


104  The  Hunter 

And  Din,  walking  away,  knew  that  he  had  de- 
served it ;  and  knew  that  Buttress  spoke  fair. 

"But  he  ain't  got  a  chance,"  he  said,  "if  he 
thinks  a  woman  of  the  type  of  Miss  Lake  can  be 
hunted  to  be  won,  he's  beaten  out  at  the  start." 


CHAPTER  XIII 


A   BAD  WORLD 


NEVERTHELESS,  when  Buttress  was  left 
alone,  he  found  that  it  was  one  of  his 
"off  days." 

"Who  would  have  thought  it  was  Bill  Din 
talkin  \  "  he  muttered.  "  Mysterious  to  think  that 
a  young  woman  with  a  fine  high-born  nature  is 
causin'  these  men  to  show  themselves  like  grizzlies, 
and  bears,  and  tigers,  and  wild  cats.  Ton  my 
word,  I'd  rather  have  the  grizzlies  and  bears !  The 
woman  would  be  shocked  if  she  knew.  Life's 
a  great  mystery." 

The  next  morning  Buttress  went  hunting,  and 

was  expeditious  and  skilful  over  the  work.     It 

was  often  his  way  to  waste  material  that  came  into 

his  hand ;  but  everything  he  did  went  to  the  right 

105 


106  The  Hunter 

market,  from  now  onwards.  He  wrote  to  a  fur 
merchant  living  in  Kansas  City,  and  arranged  to 
supply  the  man  with  certain  furs.  He  was  careful 
of  everything;  and  soon  he  was  collecting  money 
in  a  big  china  vase  which  had  come  from  Lincoln- 
shire with  his  father  and  mother.  And  he  washed 
himself  once  a  day. 

He  sang  through  all  his  work,  and  was  light- 
hearted  and  happy.  "0,  'tis  my  delight  on  a 
moonlight  night,  in  the  season  of  the  year, '  was 
whistled  and  hummed  more  than  it  had  ever  been 
done  before.  And  on  moonlight  nights,  when  Louis 
took  his  gun,  and  made  tracks  for  the  wild,  a  won- 
derful airy  feathery  vision  floated  in  front  of  him, 
bathing  the  moon  in  gossamer  light,  steeping  the 
landscape  in  poetry,  and  turning  Ari-wa-kis  lake 
into  a  vision  of  beauty. 

The  best  dreams  have  no  edge  to  them,  that  was 
why  Louis  was  so  happy,  for  there  was  no  definite 
plan,  only  a  widening  happiness,  a  joy  that  had 
sprung  up  in  the  desert.     "  Never  to  sleep  again, ' 
he  thought. 


A  Bad  World  107 

And  so  he  gave  himself  endless  pleasure,  in  the 
mere  contemplation  of  the  small  adventure. 

One  day,  when  he  was  busy  skinning  a  coon, 
Spen  came  in,  without  knocking.  He  began  walking 
about  the  room. 

"You'll  have  missed  me,"  he  said,  "'I  used  to 
come  reg'lar,  didn't  I,  when  Miss  Lake  was  at 
Ari-wa-kis?  But  there  don't  seem  nothin*  to 
come  and  talk  about  now,  someway.  Seen  her 
off  all  right,  did  you?" 

"Saw  her  aboard  the  car,"  said  Louis. 

Spen  laughed:  "I'm  picturin'  it,"  he  said; 
"there's  a  man  a'comin'  to  see  you  one  of  these 
days — Sheridan. " 

What's  he  want  with  me?"  inquired  Louis. 
A  talk.     He's  curious  to  see  you.     I  bet  he 
just  wants  to  know  why  Miss  Lake  wanted  you  to 
take  her  across  the  desert.     She  refused  a  minister 
for  you." 

Louis,  who  remembered  the  stories  of  the  vicar 
in  Lincolnshire,  known  to  his  mother  and  father, 
was  astonished  with  this  news. 


a 


11 


108  The  Hunter 

"A  real  vicar?"  he  asked. 

"St.  Saviour's,"  said  the  young  man. 

There  was  silence  again;  and  Spen,  wandering 
around  once  more,  upset  the  china  vase,  and  sent 
the  money  spinning. 

"Gettin'  rich,"  he  said,  as  he  picked  up  the 
many  pieces.  "Funny  of  you,  Louis.  What'll 
you  do  with  it?" 

"  I'm  thinkin'  of  bankin'. " 

A  peal  of  laughter  from  Spen  was  the  answer  to 
this  information,  and  it  was  followed  by  a  quick 
question:  "Ain't  you  changed  some  way?  What 
you  done  to  yourself.  Buttress?" 

Louis  continued  his  work,  and  Spen  said : 

"  'Course  you'll  be  changed,  you've  mixed  in  the 
world,  now  you  know  what  it  is.  Well,  I'll  warn 
you  of  one  thing,  be  careful  what  you  say  about 
Miss  Lake  before  Jack  Sheridan. " 

"I'm  never  careful  about  anything, "  said  Louis, 
"so  now  you  know.  You  can  tell  Sheridan  if  you 
like.     Care?    What  do  I  care  for  men's  madness ?  " 

"Not  till  it's  your  own!"  said  Spen. 


A  Bad  World  109 

"Then  leave  it,"  said  Louis,  "till  you  see  I'm 
mad.     I'm  sane  enough  at  present." 

Spen  got  up  and  went  out. 

The  same  afternoon  Sheridan  arrived,  knocking 
carefully  at  the  door. 

Louis  opened  it,  and  looked  out  in  a  gingerly 
way. 

"I've  seen  you,  Buttress,  many  a  time;  but  you 
keep  out  of  the  world,  and  it  is  difficult  to  lay 
hands  on  you.     Do  you  mind  me  coming  in?  " 

"Just  as  you  like,"  said  Louis. 

He  turned  into  the  house,  followed  by  the 
Englishman,  who,  after  looking  about  for  awhile, 
sat  down  on  the  wood-box.  Louis  went  to  the 
table,  and  continued  his  work. 

The  light  in  the  room  was  not  good,  for  the 
window  was  dim  from  many  storms  of  rain  and 
mud.  Louis  changed  his  position  several  times, 
but  remained  standing.  Meantime,  Sheridan,  sit- 
ting on  the  wood-box,  kept  his  eyes  on  the 
ground  for  a  while,  then  broke  out  suddenly: 
•  "You're  the  sensible  man,  living  out  of  Ala- 


no"  The  Hunter 

manca.  Alamanca's  a  bad  place.  The  world's 
a  very  bad  place,  Buttress.  A  very  bad  place, 
Buttress!"  he  continued.  "The  longer  I  live, 
the  worse  I  think  of  it!  It  takes  some  living  to 
find  it  all  out,  but  I  have  found  it  out,  and  I  warn 
you — the  world's  a  very  bad  place!" 

"All  right,"  said  Louis.  "I'll  take  notice  of 
what  you  say." 

"You're  wise,  Buttress,  you're  wiser  than  Solo- 
mon by  ten  thousand  advances!  Do  you  read 
much?" 

Louis  dropped  his  work,  and  his  eyes  grew  dull 
as  he  spoke: 

"  I  read  none.     I'm  a  poor  scholar. " 

"That's  a  bad  admission  for  a  man  to  make. 
You  want  to  read  more,  study  more,  reach  out 
more.  I'd  be  ashamed,  Buttress,  to  own  to  igno- 
rance, I'm  sorry  for  you,  I  pity  you,  but  I'll  hold 
out  the  helping  hand — will  you  have  the  use  of  my 
library  as  often  as  you  like,  and  for  as  long  as  you 
like?  I'm  a  restless  man — I'm  away  for  the  day 
or  the  week — but  I'll  give  you  a  key  to  my  room, 


A  Bad  World  in 

and  you  can  go  in  and  out  as  you  please.  Will  you 
doit?" 

Louis  stopped  working.  The  afternoon  was 
waning,  and  it  was  a  little  difficult  to  see  Sheridan's 
face,  but  the  brown  eyes  of  the  man  shone  out  of 
the  darkness,  with  a  look  which  was  persuasive. 

"I'm  wantin'  knowledge,"  said  Louis,  "more'n 
I  ever  wanted  it  up  till  now !  I  want  a  run  of  some 
books.  But  I  can't  see  why  you  should  think  o' 
me?     What  made  you  think  o'  me?  " 

"You  never  mix  yourself  up  with  what  doesn't 
concern  you.  I'd  give  every  single  thing  I  possess 
to  stand  clear  of  Alamanca,  as  you  do!" 

"I'd  get  out  of  it,  then, "  said  Louis. 

Sheridan  looked  around  the  room  in  a  consider- 
ing way.  "I  may  do  so.  I  don't  like  it.  Then, 
tell  me,  will  you  use  my  library?  Will  you  try 
to  get  somewhere?" 

Buttress  put  his  hand  to  his  chin  and  rubbed  it 
with  his  ringers.  He  looked  out  of  the  dimmed 
windows  to  the  sky,  with  its  sunset  tinges. 

Sheridan's  eyes  were  still  upon  his  face. 


ii2  The  Hunter 


a  T». 


I'm  not  sayin'  much,'  said  Louis,  "but  I'm 
thinkin' — now  you'll  have  had  great  advantages. 
You  might  say  that  you  already  stand  in  advance 
of  a  man  like  me,  by  years  of  education.  'Tain't 
ever  likely  I'll  come  anywhere  near  gettin'  up  to 
you " 


"Of  a  sort,'  interrupted  Sheridan,  throwing 
back  his  head. 

"You're  a  scholar.  You  can  pen  things  beauti- 
fully. My  father  would  call  it  'inditing.'  You 
can  have  thoughts  in  your  brain  that  I  ain't  able 
to  even  dream  of " 

"Buttress!"  said  Sheridan. 

Louis  stared  at  him. 

"What  have  I  done?"  cried  the  hunter. 

"Nothing  at  all,  Buttress.  I  merely  stopped 
you  short  because  you — ah,  well,  it  all  comes  to 
the  same  thing — I'm  at  daggers  drawn  with  the 
world  and  my  fellow  creatures — and  I'm  twenty- 
eight,  would  you  think  it?  Only  twenty-eight. 
And  I  haven't  a  scrap  of  faith!  I'm  in  rags  and 
ashes,    and  I've   come   to   you    more  like  a  beg- 


A  Bad  World  113 

gar,  Buttress,  to  say,  May  I — may  I  be  your 
friend?" 

Buttress  came  over  to  him,  and  put  his  hand  on 
his  shoulder:  "Course  we'll  be  friends.  I  ain't 
able  to  fathom  your  bitterness,  but  it's  a  real  bad 
sort,  I  can  see — real  as  hell.  I  remember  once 
hearin'  a  poor  man  talk  like  you — I  sure  pitied 
him !  He'd  got  it  real  bad.  Come  to  think  of  it, 
the  poor  fellow  had  done  somethin'  he  shouldn't 
a'done — that  makes  a  lot  of  folks  miserable! 
Course  a  man  who  studies  and  thinks  and  knows 
all  you  do,  he's  kinder  safe  from  a  lot  o'  badness. 
This  fellow  was  a  no-account  man  like  myself, 
but  bein'  not  so  happy  natured  as  me,  his  slackness 
did  for  him!" 

"He  got  on  the  rocks,  did  he?"  asked  Sheridan. 
"How  did  he  end?" 

"Pretty  good  I  think — he  pulled  through,  some- 
way, though  I  ain't  heard  of  him  for  more'n  ten 
years.  Wal',  I  call  your  visit  to-day  kinder  provi- 
dential. It's  all  in  a  piece  with  the  considera- 
tions of  my  mind.     I've  been  an  indifferent  living 


ii4  The  Hunter 

man  up  till  now.  Give  me  a  gun,  and  the  open 
air,  and  I  ain't  had  a  wish  beyond  it,  but  somethin's 
come  into  my  mind  of  late,  and  I've  wakened  up, 
and  I  own  I'm  wantin'  books  pretty  bad,  and  I'll 
be  real  glad  of  your  direction. " 

Sheridan  got  up  and  went  to  the  door,  opened  it, 
re-shut  it,  and  stood  with  his  back  to  it.  "To- 
gether we'll  pull  it  off,  Buttress — I'm  sure  of  it. 
I've  had  my  eyes  skinned  in  Alamanca  Creek  and 
I'm  equal  to  dealing  with  them!" 

"What's  that?"  asked  Buttress.  "Pull  what 
off?" 

"You,"  said  Sheridan.  "We'll  make  you  top 
of  the  cream!" 

And  opening  the  door  of  the  cabin,  the  English- 
man went  out  to  his  horse. 

Louis  Buttress  stood  thinking. 

"A  rum  world,"  he  said  to  himself.  "There's 
wheels  within  wheels.  That  man  ain't  right, 
though  he's  had  his  chance,  a  good  chance  to  know 
things,  I  should  say!  Seems  like  as  if  he  don't 
know  the  A  B  C  of  things.     Now  there's  a  trail 


A  Bad  World  115 

lost  there,  by  which  he  misses  his  game.  And  he's 
got  what  I  ain't  got,  but  it  don't  work  right  some- 
way.    It's  been  laid  out  wrong,  so  it's  no  use!" 

Louis  was  so  engrossed  with  his  thoughts  that 
the  dogs  licked  him  in  vain. 

"They  ain't  started  right  with  that  man.  Poor 
fellow, "  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


silvia's  second  letter 


BUTTRESS  awaked  one  morning  in  December 
to  find  that  his  left  shoulder  blade  was  very 
obtrusive — that  is  to  say,  a  sharp  stab  reminded 
him  every  now  and  again  that  he  had  once  had  an 
attack  of  muscular  rheumatism. 

"Drat  it!"  said  Louis. 

He  next  proceeded  to  light  the  fire  in  the  stove, 
coming  to  the  conclusion,  by  the  agony  in  his 
fingers,  that  the  fire  ought  to  have  been  kept  up 
all  night. 

"Forty  below  zero,"  he  muttered. 

The  fire  was  thawing  the  near  neighbourhood, 
when  the  kettle  took  a  lively  turn,  and  slipped 
awkwardly  in  his  stiff  fingers.  A  moment  later 
the  fire  was  out. 

116 


Silvia's  Second  Letter  117 

"Now  if  it  had  been  boiling  summer,"  said 
Louis,  "and  I'd  a'wanted  to  put  out  my  fire,  that 
ole  kettle  would  have  contrived  to  stand  up. " 

It  took  him  half  an  hour  to  relight  the  wood, 
which  he  had  to  soak  with  kerosene. 

He  went  out  for  pine,  and  "brought  the  cones 
to  warm  things  up  faster";  and  at  about  nine 
o'clock  the  room  was  thawed  out,  while  his  break- 
fast was  smoking  on  the  stove. 

Louis  next  went  to  the  enamelled  tin,  where  he 
was  wont  to  wash  himself;  but  finding  that  the 
soft  water  was  frozen,  he  looked  at  the  tub,  and 
back  at  the  tin,  and  remarked: 

"Can't  do  it — ain't  a  bit  o'  use — why  should  I 
wash?" 

Nobody  answered  this  question;  only  the  two 
dogs,  Simon  and  Testy,  who  had  been  shut  up 
over-night  for  fear  of  their  coming  in  contact  with 
a  prowling  skunk,  lately  making  raids  on  Louis 's 
chickens,  started  howling  at  the  top  of  their  voices, 
and  with  another  "  drat  it, "  Louis  went  off  to  their 
rescue. 


n8  The  Hunter 

They  returned  with  him  to  the  house,  looking 
like  two  mollified  children,  who,  after  being  very 
badly  treated,  are  given  the  liberty  they  ought  to 
have  had  long  since.  Buttress  took  hold  of  his 
gun,  and  began  playing  with  it. 

He  discovered  something  wrong  with  the  mech- 
anism, and  decided  to  go  to  Alamanca  to  get  it 
put  to  rights. 

The  day  was  still  in  a  state  of  deadly  frost. 
Everything  was  uniformly  grey  and  dull  and  quiet, 
but  within  all,  like  the  spirit  of  certain  quiet- 
spoken  people,  there  was  a  frost  that  could  anni- 
hilate life. 

The  ride  into  town  was  accomplished  quickly, 
and  Louis  was  soon  cantering  back  again  with  the 
dogs  at  his  heels. 

A  man  who  met  him  just  outside  Alamanca,  as 
the  ridge  was  descending  into  the  lower  land,  called 
out:  "What's  the  matter,  Buttress?" 

"Why,  now?"  asked  Buttress,  turning  round  in 
the  saddle,  for  the  man  had  already  passed  by. 

"You  don't  look  same  as  you've  looked  lately." 


Silvia's  Second  Letter  119 

"Rheumatiz, "  said  Louis,  and  went  riding  away 
towards  Ari-wa-kis. 

"I'll  have  a  pull  at  the  oil  bottle,  when  I  git 
back, "  said  Louis.  "  I'll  soak  a  flannel,  and  put  it 
on  good  and  warm. " 

When  he  had  made  up  his  fire  again  and  emptied 
his  sack,  which  contained  the  purchases  in  town, 
he  sat  down  to  look  over  them.  There  was  a  new 
piece  of  harness,  which  took  up  a  long  time;  and 
then  he  turned  over  the  letters.  One  had  the 
Chicago  postmark,  and  he  wondered  he  had  not 
noticed  it  when  the  man  handed  out  the  bundle. 

"Miss  Lake,"  he  said,  softly. 

The  bluish  pallor  of  his  face  thawed  out  under 
the  change  of  thought,  and  he  looked  long  at  the 
envelope. 

"I  never  washed  myself  to-day,"  he  said  sud- 
denly. 

He  jumped  up,  and  went  for  the  despised  tin, 
got  some  soft  water  from  the  kettle,  broke  the  ice 
on  the  top  of  the  tub,  and  brought  the  water  to  a 
lukewarm  heat.     He  plunged  his  face  into  the 


120  The  Hunter 

refreshing  liquid,  and  soon  was  rubbing  away  with 
a  towel,  water  trickling  from  hair  and  ears.  He 
felt  better  for  the  effort.  He  returned  to  the  table 
and  opened  his  letter. 

He  was  right,  for  Miss  Lake  had  answered  his 
letter. 

Dear  Mr.  Buttress, 

Did  you  write  that  poem  out,  or  did  some  one  tell 
you  to  do  it  ?  When  I  saw  your  name  at  the  close  of 
the  page,  I  said  to  myself,  "I'll  hear  some  about  Ari- 
wa-kis. "  Then  I  read  that  old,  old  poem  of  Jonson's, 
written  to  the  goddess  Diana,  and  as  far  away  from 
dear  old  Ari-wa-kis  as  England,  and  I  felt  sure  grieved. 
Where  is  your  kingdom,  Master  Hunter?  Have  you 
lost  it?  Ah,  you  are  like  ail  these  boys  of  to-day, 
who  cannot  say  a  word  for  themselves,  but  are  always 
saying  and  doing  what  others  have  done?  I'm  sure 
disappointed. 

Yours  in  regret, 

Silvia  Lake. 

Louis  read  the  letter  twice,  and  then  looked 
quickly  about  him. 

"  I  wish  I'd  a  pair  of  glasses, "  he  said,  "  I  might 
see  clearer  what  she  says." 

He  took  the  letter  up  again,  and  read  it  through 


Silvia's  Second  Letter  121 

more  slowly,  drinking  in  the  full  import  of  the 
words ;  and  then  he  took  it  to  the  stove  and  threw 
it  in  the  ash-pan. 

"  It's  best  there, "  he  said,  "it  ain't  a'goin'  to  do 
me  a  bit  of  good,  so  it's  best  there  where  I  can't 
think  of  it." 

Having  destroyed  it  he  went  across  to  the  new 
harness,  and  began  to  play  with  it,  the  dogs  help- 
ing him  by  coming  around  his  legs,  and  licking  his 
hands  as  they  got  a  chance  for  it;  but  even  then, 
Louis  knew  quite  well,  that  though  the  letter  was 
burned,  every  word  of  it  was  written  like  fire  in  his 
heart,  and  was  coming  up  before  his  mental  eyes, 
like  something  that  was  alive  to  torture  him  in 
future  days.  He  bore  it  in  silence  for  two  solid 
hours,  and  then  he  flung  the  harness  from  him,  and 
tramped  to  the  door,  and  threw  it  wide  open. 

"Yes,  my  boys,"  he  said  to  the  dogs,  "yes,  my 
good  ole  sports,  we'll  be  great  together  this  winter, 
we  will,  we  will!" 

And  the  dogs  bounded  about  him,  and  Louis, 
setting  to  work  to  prepare  his  sled  for  a  run  to  a 


122  The  Hunter 

hut  where  he  dried  skins,  was  saying  to  himself: 
"Din  tol*  me  what  it  felt  like,  and  I  was  darned 
hard  with  him.  'Go  huntinV  I  said;  I  remember 
I  said  it,  and  as  I  said  it,  somethin'  kinder  tol'  me 
I  was  beyond  myself!  I  hope  Bill  Din  will  get  her, 
and  I  hope  he  will — and  I  want  her  mightily  myself, 
and  she's  given  me  the  mitten,  and  I'm  dratted 
ignorant  and  ain't  able  to  say,  'when  a  woman  does 
this  she  means  that'  same  as  my  father  knew  all 
too  well,  through  my  mother  holding  so  many 
years  of  knowledge  round  his  life.  And  there's 
Spen  knows  the  women  generally  to  a  great  height 
of  skill,  but  he  don't  know  the  ones  in  particular. 
And  there's  Sheridan,  Din  said  Sheridan  was  once 
in  favour,  and  is  now  out  of  it.  Well,  so  was  I. 
I  was  once  in  favour,  highly  in  favour.  Who  but 
me  took  her  to  the  Junction?  This  means — what 
does  this  mean?" 

And  Louis  brought  the  fur  rug  out  and  piled 
it  into  the  sled,  saying  again:  "I  should  never 
have  come  out  o'  my  shell,  didn't  Spen  tell  me  to 
stay  where  I  was?     Didn't  poor  ole  Din  beg  of  me, 


Silvia's  Second  Letter  123 

with  feeling  in  his  voice,  to  stop  a' washing  of  my 
face,  lest  I  had  to  wash  my  heart?  I'll  wash 
neither  heart  nor  face  for  any  woman — not  for 
any  woman — it's  not  good  enough." 

And  then,  suddenly,  Buttress  felt  that  someone 
was  near  him,  and  looking  round  saw  Sheridan. 

"I've  brought  you  some  books,"  cried  the 
Englishman. 

He  was  looking  at  Louis  intently,  and  in  the  best 
bit  of  light  the  day  had  yet  shown. 

"What  did  you  do  that  for?"  inquired  the 
hunter,  sullenly. 

"Never  saw  you  look  more  ready  for  work," 
said  Sheridan.  "You  see,  Buttress,  when  you're 
getting  ready  for  sport,  or  whatever  you're  doing, 
you  do  it  with  full  force. " 

"Will  you  go  with  me?"  said  Louis  suddenly. 

Sheridan  was  so  glad  of  the  offer  that  he  never 
asked  where  they  were  bound  for,  and  two  men  who 
had  felt  the  pinch  of  circumstances,  which  a  care- 
less life  often  leads  to,  found  themselves  journeying 
through  the  woods  in  a  silent  harmony. 


CHAPTER  XV 


"try  your  luck" 


SILENCE  is  sometimes  the  best  introducer  of  a 
companionship  for  life.  A  good  silence  at  the 
right  moment  tells  so  strongly  in  favour  of  a  good 
understanding. 

The  journey  through  the  woods  was  undertaken 
in  silence.  Spen's  loquacity  would  have  fretted 
the  whole  way,  and  Bill  Din  would  have  had  vio- 
lent exclamations  during  the  changes  of  the  road. 
But  these  two  men  found  themselves  equal  to  the 
long  pause  in  speech. 

The  hut  reached,  Buttress  asked  Sheridan  if  he 
would  care  to  stay  the  night,  and  the  offer  ac- 
cepted, the  hunter  began  to  prepare  supper,  after 
lighting  a  large  wood  fire.     The  horse  was  put  up 

next  door  to  them,  and  Louis  made  their  small 

124 


''Try  your  Luck'*  125 

living-room  warmer  than  his  own  home;  for  the 
vicinity  of  the  big  trees  sheltered  the  men  from  the 
fierce  north-east  blast,  and  made  it  easier  to  do  it. 
There  was  fried  pork  and  hot  coffee  for  supper, 
taken  in  a  dim  light,  at  about  five  o'clock,  with  a 
fearful  frost  striking  up  on  the  windows.  The 
light  from  the  stove  and  the  lantern  gave  chequered 
glimmers  over  the  wooden  walls  of  the  building, 
and  the  dogs,  delighted  with  the  men's  company, 
hovered  round  and  round  them.  Through  the 
rough  little  windows,  with  their  swollen  glass  with 
notches  in  it,  they  could  see  odd  glimpses  of  a  hob- 
goblin moon,  and  some  sheen  of  stars.  To  open 
the  door  was  to  feel  a  cold  cutting  in,  which  took 
out  a  warm  slice  from  the  kitchen,  leaving  winter 
in  its  place. 

Buttress  got  to  some  work,  sitting  on  a  stump  of 
wood.  Sheridan,  throwing  his  fur  coat  on  the 
floor,  lay  down  on  it. 

Now  Louis  Buttress,  once  at  work,  was  an  intent 
sort  of  man.  Yet  he  could  follow,  and  had  fol- 
lowed, the  long  monologues  of  Spen,  and  the  truer 


126  The  Hunter 

stories  told  by  Bill  Din,  for  hours  and  hours  at  a 

time.     He  was  something  of  a  wedding  guest  to  an 

ancient  mariner,  and  men  were  fond  of  confiding 

in  one  who  was  absolutely  safe,  and  thoroughly 

interested  in  them.     But  for  once  in  his  life,  Louis 

Buttress  was  too  busy  with  his  own  thoughts  to 

follow  the  mind  of  another  man. 

"If   youVe  brought  books  for   me  to  study, 

you   can    take   'em   back!"    he   said.     "I   don't 

want  'em !  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  stay  where 
I  am." 

"What's  that  for?" 

1 '  For  the  love  of  the  work !  I've  been  in  a  back- 
water all  my  life,  and  it's  been  good  enough  to  give 
me  satisfaction.  You  said  one  day  that  the  world 
was  a  bad  place — wal',  may  be  it  is — it's  good 
enough  in  this  cabin,  and  on  the  shores  of  Ari-wa- 
kis,  and  it's  been  good  enough  to  satisfy  me  until 
now.  Why  should  I  come  out  of  all  this  satisfac- 
tion to  get  sick  o'  life,  like  you  seem  to  be,  and  like 
Spen  talks?  Why  should  I?  No,  I'll  not  do  it. 
I'll  hunt  on  Ari-wa-kis  shores,  until  I  die. 


!•         »» 


"Try  your  Luck"  127 

Sheridan  got  up  and  began  to  walk  the  cabin 
floor. 

"I'm  sorry  you're  talking  like  this  again,"  he 
said.  "A  poor  spirit  you've  got,  Buttress,  I  must 
say!  You  could  make  a  good  place  in  the  world 
with  a  bit  of  trouble;  but  you  won't  cut  out  the 
Rip  Van  Winkle — that's  all  you  are,  Buttress,  a 
Rip  Van  Winkle.  And  if  you'd  liked  you  could 
have  been  first  in  Alamanca  Creek,  and — and " 

Sheridan  stopped  talking  and  went  to  the 
window. 

Buttress  laid  down  his  work  and  looked  at  him. 
The  man's  head  was  thrown  far  back,  tilted  until 
the  tip  of  the  forehead  was  about  visible. 

Louis  began  to  speak  in  a  low  measured  voice. 
"What  else  could  I  do?"  he  said.  "I  could  get 
longing  and  hoping  for  far  more  than  was  ever 
meant  for  me.  That's  what  I  could  do.  I  could 
get  thinking  of  a  lady  that'll  never  think  of  me! 
And  I  call  it  folly,  and  madness,  and  weakness. 
Up  till  now  I  ain't  been  weak,  and  now  I  see  myself 
growing  weak — a'slidin'  into  hopes  which  will  dupe 


i28  The   Hunter 

me !  I  see  myself  building  a  castle  in  the  air,  or  on 
the  sand.  Now's  the  time  to  give  it  up,  and  keep 
my  head " 

"What  about  her,  Buttress?  What  about  the 
woman?  Would  you  leave  a  woman  to  face  the 
world  by  herself,  because  youVe  got  no  confidence? 
Is  that  the  man  in  you !  You're  half -beaten  at  the 
start!" 

Sheridan  went  to  the  cabin  door  and  looked  out 
into  the  night.  Everything  was  very  still.  Some 
snow,  falling  from  the  bough  of  a  tree,  gave  a  soft 
thud,  and  there  was  the  faint  creaking  of  a  sled, 
probably  a  mile  away. 

1 '  What  a  night ! ' '  he  muttered.  As  he  said  these 
words  he  became  lost  in  thought;  but  he  was 
awakened  out  of  them  by  Louis  Buttress. 

The  hunter  had  stood  beside  him  for  some 
moments  and  was  now  looking  earnestly  into 
his   face. 

"You  don't  follow,"  he  said.  "You  ain't  been 
bred  and  born  in  ignorance  and  darkness  same  as 
me.     Who  am  I,  anyway?     What  have  I  learned 


"Try  your  Luck"  129 

and  done?  Mighty  little!  I'm  a  man  of  no 
account.  You  ain't  able  to  feel  it.  You're 
amongst  the  general  world,  while  I'm  right  out  of 
it.  It  ain't  fair.  You've  gotten  the  right  start, 
and  I — I  was  put  out  by  a  mighty  bad  beginning, 
losing  all  but  the  hunting,  and  having  plenty  of 
chances  of  sport.  Nothin'  else  to  take  me  from  it. 
What  have  I  to  give  a  woman?" 

11 Buttress,  try  it!  Try  your  luck.  I  think 
you've  got  something  you  don't  know  of." 

The  hunter  stepped  out  of  the  hut  and  walked  a 
few  yards  away. 

Sheridan  was  muttering  to  the  dogs,  "  Get  down, 
you  brutes !     Get  away  with  you ! ' ' 

He  was  lost  in  thought. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SPEN   GOES   TALKING 

S  PEN'S  temper  was  none  of  the  best.  He 
had  been  highly  delighted  with  Sheridan's 
friendship,  and  had  boasted  considerably  of  his 
friend,  the  Englishman. 

Now  Louis  supplanted  him,  had  without  any 
difficulty  won  a  position,  which  reduced  Spen  to 
silence  for  want  of  an  audience.  His  first  idea  was 
to  spoil  Buttress's  feelings  by  telling  him  a  few 
truths.  So  he  called  on  the  hunter.  Buttress 
appeared  dull  and  quiet,  and  without  any  hesita- 
tion Spen  plunged  into  his  tale. 

"So  I  hear  you  are  in  favour,  and  are  to  have 
the  run  of  Sheridan's  library.  I  wouldn't  use  it, 
if  he'd  offered  it  twice." 

As  he  got  no  answer,  though  he  left  a  dramatic 

pause,  Spen  continued: 

130 


Spen  Goes  Talking  131 

"Queer  fellow,  Sheridan,  you  don't  know  him. 
I've  sized  him  up.  Seen  him  through  and  through. 
Life's  a  stage  to  him — everything  in  this  world  too 
— 'cept  of  course,  himself.  Have  you  never  noticed 
how  he  looks  at  you,  kinder  studyin'  same  as  if 
he  was  in  a  play-house.  I  don't  know  where  the 
blamed  fellow's  spent  his  life,  but  he's  a'sayin', 
'Now  let's  see  what's  in  this  heart,  sure,  it's  an 
interestin'  study!'  He  takes  everybody  off,  and 
imitates  them.  He  gits  them  easy  and  natural, 
a'showin'  of  their  real  natures,  and  then  he  has 
them  on  exhibition — a  free  treat,  you  might  say! 
That's  why  he  was  so  keen  to  go  to  Ari-wa-kis. 
Silvester  Lake  sure  tickled  him — tickled  him  to 
death — with  his  pride  and  his  empty  pockets  and 
his  empty  bigness." 

Still,  Louis  was  not  to  be  drawn,  so  Spen  con- 
tinued : 

"Miss  Lake  was  to  be  another,  but  it  played  off 
like  a  bad  shot  there,  and  Sheridan  got  hit  without 
meanin'  it.  Then  he  took  a  notion  to  study  me. 
Gee — he  found  me  interestin' — and  I  had  the  run 


132  The  Hunter 

of  the  place.  But  he  never  saw  through  me!  I 
was  too  deep  for  him. " 

Spen  leaned  back  in  the  hickory  chair,  and 
looked  proudly  at  the  hunter. 

"I  could  a'done  any  thin'  with  him — then  I 
could — brotherly  love  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  He 
used  to  ask  for  tales  of  you — it  was  sure  good  to  see 
him,  striding  across  the  room  like  he  was  going  to 
break  up  house — that  was  you  in  company,  see! 
I  couldn't  help  feelin'  that  the  fellow  was  darned 
clever  at  it.  'Spen,'  says  he,  'have  you  ever 
noticed  that  the  man  Buttress  is  obliged  to  have 
his  own  way?  You  see  he  has  lived  so  totally  for 
himself  that  he  is  getting  his  way  while  we  civilized 
creatures  are  saying,  "if  you  please"  and  "thank 
you. 

"Wal',"  said  Louis,  "that's  my  way.  I'll  own 
up." 

"Sure,  Buttress!  And  he  says  to  me,  'Spen, 
let's  start  all  afresh — we'll  stop  playing  this  civil- 
ized game.  We'll  be  our  real  selves — well  be 
hogs — we'll  be  the  original  thing!'     I'm  quotin' 


Spen  Goes  Talking  133 

him  word  for  word.  So  you'll  be  usin'  his  library, 
will  you?  That's  sure  out  o'  my  line.  I'd  rather 
shoot  him. " 

"You  wouldn't,"  said  Buttress.  "Not  you. 
Wal',  you  take  great  pleasure  in  tellin'  me  this; 
but  when  a  man  lives  by  himself,  he  does  get  selfish, 
you  bet  he  does!  He  don't  get  mixed  up  with  talk 
— that's  sure  a  great  help.  But  you  think  you'll 
spoil  two  friends,  do  you?  You  go  home  thinkin' 
you've  driven  'em  along  the  same  road,  'cos  you 
have !  Sheridan's  my  friend ;  and  best  of  it  is,  he 
knows  me,  and  still  he  stays  by  me. " 

Spen  got  up  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"Bill  Din  has  thirty  head  of  cattle  on  the  south 
bank  of  Ari-wa-kis, "  he  said,  "that's  the  boy  that 
gits  Miss  Lake!  She's  rented  to  him — that  tells 
you  how  the  land  lies.  Wal',  I  guess  you  ain't 
in  the  mood  to  believe  me?" 

"Sure,  I  do.  If  you  mean  about  Mr.  Sheridan. 
Don't  I  know  the  man?  I  ain't  clever  in  books, 
but  I  know  that  tigers  are  tigers,  and  monkeys  are 
monkeys;  and  I  guess  the  striped  creatures  ain't 


134  The  Hunter 

able  to  help  their  stripes.  Sheridan  looks  at  life 
crooked  some  way !  You  ain't  used  to  it.  I  ain't 
used  to  it!  We're  all  for  thumpin'  blows  out  here; 
but  it's  in  the  man  for  some  reason,  and  Sheridan's 
made  me  think !  He's  shown  the  real  man  to  me. 
I  thank  the  man  for  showin'  me  up  as  a  'good  for 
nothing. '     Sheridan's  my  friend ! ' ' 

Spen  got  up. 

"Wal',  I'll  go  and  see  Bill  Din,  the  man  who 


wins. ' 


As  Buttress  made  no  answer,  Spen  went  out,  and 
did  just  what  he  had  said  he  would  do.  It  was 
four  in  the  afternoon,  but  he  turned  his  horse  in  the 
direction  of  Bill  Din's  ranch. 

Bill  Din  and  Toad  Lorraine  had  a  big  horse 
ranch  seven  miles  out  of  Alamanca ;  and  here  came 
the  idle  Spen  in  a  fit  of  vexation.  Sheridan  tired 
of  him,  Buttress  now  his  enemy,  he  felt  he  must 
have  a  truce  with  the  pony  boy.  The  ranch  was 
one  of  the  most  attractive  places  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  Spen  dearly  loved  an  audience.  The 
young  men  that  gathered  nightly  in  the  home  of  the 


Spen  Goes  Talking  135 

horse  ranchers  were  the  brightest  specimens  of 
the  country;  and  to  stand  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd, 
in  the  comfort  and  warmth  of  Din's  living-room 
and  tell  tales,  well  adorned  with  the  flowers  of 
his  own  imagination — this  was  a  relief  to  the 
monotony  of  life.  This  was  more  to  Spen  than 
a  wife  and  home.  He  was  a  rolling  stone,  and  he 
gathered  no  moss.  To  have  a  pretence  at  life  was 
more  attractive  than  life  itself. 

Din  and  he  had  quarrelled,  but  Spen  patched 
up  all  his  quarrels  whenever  he  chose.  He  would 
quarrel  with  a  man  one  day,  keep  it  going  until  he 
was  tired  of  it,  and  make  it  up  without  any  effort, 
to  suit  his  own  plans.  Men  allowed  him  to  do  this 
because  they  did  not  treat  him  seriously. 

So  Spen  rode  off  to  Bill  Din's  ranch  and  found 
time  favourable,  for  Bill  was  alone  in  the  big 
kitchen,  smoking  a  pipe  and  thinking  desperately. 

"You  look  as  if  you  were  makin'  a  fortune, "  said 
Spen. 

Din  nearly  dropped  the  pipe,  he  was  so  sur- 
prised to  see  his  one-time  rival. 


136  The  Hunter 

"Oh,  you!"  he  said;  "what  d'you  want?" 

"A  seat  if  I  may  have  one!  Sheridan's  great 
with  Buttress,  now. " 

"So  I  heard, "  said  Din. 

"Sure!  He  never  wanted  Miss  Lake — he'll 
be  going  back  to  England  to  git  married — some 
duchess  or  royalty  lady  will  be  for  him.  Wal — he's 
helpin'  Buttress  all  he  can,  so  he  can  do  you  out. " 

"And  would  have  taken  Miss  Lake  himself,  if 
she  hadn't  objected,"  said  Din.  "U.  S.  A.  won't 
miss  him. " 

"You  bet  your  bottom  dollar  that  there  ain't  a 
man  in  Alamanca  will  miss  him ;  'cept  that  cracked 
hunter  up  at  Ari-wa-kis,  but  he  ain't  gone  yet — 
and  he's  workin'  up  Buttress,  to  do  you  out!' 

Bill  stared  at  Spen. 

"Sure!  Buttress  has  been  in  all  his  schemes  of 
late.  Buttress  has  the  key  of  his  library.  He's 
to  go  in  and  out  as  he  pleases.  That's  true. 
There's  a  plot  hatchin'  there.  And  I've  tumbled 
to  it.  Sheridan  ain't  able  to  win  Miss  Lake — 
(we'll  put  it  that  way  to  please  you).    Wal — he 


Spen  Goes  Talking  137 

hates  you  and  me  like  poison — specially  you!     So 

he  puts  Louis  up  to  it,  as  a  rival,  and  sets  him  to 

work  to  educate  and  make  himself  presentable — 
and  to  do  you  out." 

Din  laid  his  pipe  down  and  looked  at  Spen. 

"Goin'  to  take  it  sittin'  down?"  inquired  Spen. 
"Gee!  If  I'd  your  chances,  I'd  rush  in  like  a 
whirlwind,  before  that  Buttress  can  make  any  thin* 
of  his  knowledge.  See  here,  Bill  Din,  there's  to  be 
great  doin's  in  Chicago,  a  great  horse  fair,  and 
big  prizes  for  the  best  riders  in  March.  Now  I 
know  the  ladies  and  I  know  what  they  like — a 
victorious  fellow.  You  go  along  and  come  off 
with  a  first  prize  and  let  her  see  you  a'doin'  it — 
it'll  carry  her  away  by  storm!" 

"What  date  in  March?" 

"Mid  March." 

"I'll  do  it,  sure.  Darn  it,  that  rich  oil  merchant 
hits  me  hardest.  I  ain't  a  poor  man,  but  I  can't 
run  with  an  oil  merchant. " 

"He  can't  put  a  lock  on  Silvia  Lake!  She's  a 
woman's  will  of  her  own!     You  ain't  any  need  to 


138  The  Hunter 

think  of  him.  Let  her  know  you're  comin'  and 
you  give  her  the  full  chance  of  seein'  your  skill, 
and  the  way  the  public  loves  it.  She'll  be  clappin' 
you  among  thousands ;  and  she'll  be  in  the  mood  to 
say  yes  to  you. " 

It  was  at  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  Toad 
Lorraine  entered,  followed  by  two  men,  so  Spen 
got  up  to  go;  and,  slowly,  but  with  some  show  of 
goodwill,  Bill  went  to  the  door  with  him,  Lorraine 
looking  back  in  surprise. 

When  Spen  had  mounted  his  horse,  he  gazed 
down  at  his  yesterday's  enemy.  Bill  Din's  black 
hair  was  shining  like  a  raven's  wing  in  the  moon- 
light. His  grey  eyes  were  upon  the  prairie,  where 
his  horses  roamed ;  and  as  he  looked  at  them,  it  was 
easy  to  see  the  joy  awaking  in  the  young  man's 
expression.  It  was  at  the  thought  of  immediate 
action. 

"You'll  do  it, "  said  Spen,  after  watching  him  in 
silence. 

Bill  nodded. 

"Get  your  wardrobe  dashin',  and  carry  your 


Spen  Goes  Talking  139 

usual  fine  style  into  all  you  do !  Feel  in  good  order 
for  the  pony  ridin,?,, 

" That's  done  beforehand!"  said  Bill.  "I'll 
ride  a  prize  out  of  Chicago,  if  Miss  Lake's  a  witness. 
Good-night." 

" Good-night!"  said  Spen,  riding  off. 


u 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ARI-WA-KIS   IN   CHICAGO 

NCLE  DICK,"  said  Silvia,  "I  want  to  go 
to  that  big  pony  show,  where  there  will  be 
Indians  and  cow-boys  and  Western  men.' 

"  And  I  stay  at  home, "  said  Aunt  Louisa.  "I've 
no  pleasure  in  seeing  men  standing  on  their  heads 
on  the  back  of  a  pony,  picking  up  handkerchiefs 
with  their  teeth. " 

"They  won't  go  so  far  as  that,  Auntie,"  said 
Silvia.     "Will  you  go,  Uncle  Dick?" 

"Have  you  a  programme,  then?"  inquired 
Uncle  Dick,  looking  at  the  paper  the  girl  was 
unfolding. 

Silvia  Lake  handed  it  to  him,  and  after  reading 
over  the  details,  and  noting  a  cross  near  the  name 
of  Din,  the  oil  merchant  declared  it  to  be  a  capital 

bill. 

140 


Ari-wa-kis  in  Chicago  141 

Silvia  told  her  friend  Bertha  Martin  all  about  it, 
and  then  Bertha  wanted  to  go  more  than  anything 
else  in  life.  Bertha's  early  life  had  been  sadly 
overburdened  by  a  heavy  load  of  protection.  She 
suffered  from  a  father  who  meant  her  to  know  noth- 
ing, a  mother  who  believed  in  ornamental  daugh- 
ters, and  three  big  brothers  who  were  always  seeing 
to  it  that  Bertha  should  never  be  played  with  by 
their  fellow  men.  The  result  was  fearfully  hard  on 
Bertha;  and  Silvia,  whose  compassion  was  awak- 
ened by  her  college  chum's  utter  ignorance  of  the 
opposite  sex,  made  herself  into  an  enlightening 
companion.  She  would  rather  have  taken  her 
friend  Rebecca  Oyston  to  this  particular  show,  but 
remembering  that  Rebecca's  free,  happy  life  had 
made  her  a  happy  world,  these  desires  were  given 
up  at  once,  and  it  was  decided  that  here  was  an 
opportunity  to  let  Bertha  Martin  meet  real  men. 

"I'll  introduce  her  to  Bill,"  thought  Silvia, 
"and  he'll  do  her  real  good,  he's  so  manly.  She'll 
get  rid  of  that  knight  and  forlorn  maiden  dream, 
which  she  carries  about  like  a  packet  of  candy. ' 


142  The  Hunter 

Bill  Din  had  written  to  Silvia  and  sent  the  notice 
of  the  show ;  and  he  had  received  a  short  note  from 
her,  telling  him  that  he  was  to  call  at  her  uncle's 
house,  when  he  chose,  but  that  if  he  let  her  know 
the  hour  she  would  take  care  to  be  at  home.  Bill 
was  so  delighted  that  he  went  about  the  ranch 
like  a  madman.  His  partner,  Toad  Lorraine, 
startled  him  by  saying  on  the  evening  before  the 
event : 

11  I'm  coming  along  too,  I've  entered  in  the  show, 
and  I  mean  to  carry  off  a  prize. " 

"You?"  said  Bill. 

"Sure!"  said  Toad,  rocking  himself  violently 
in  a  rocking-chair,  to  show  he  meant  all  his  words. 

"I  counted  on  you  for  minding  the  ranch, "  said 
Bill. 

"  Some  man  can  do  it  for  us,  'long  as  we  pay  him 
good  money, "  said  Toad. 

Bill  stared  at  his  partner. 

Toad  Lorraine  was  a  freckled,  red-haired,  high- 
spirited  youth  of  about  twenty- three ;  the  two  men 
had  been  extremely  happy  in  their  business  union; 


Ari-wa-kis  in  Chicago  143 

but,  while  communicative  enough  in  such  affairs, 
they  were  shy  of  one  another's  personal  life. 
Bill's  love  of  Silvia,  which  was  known  high  and  low, 
had  never  yet  been  spoken  of  between  the  two 
friends — even  the  name  of  Silvia  had  never  been 
mentioned  by  Toad  Lorraine  in  the  presence  of  Bill 
Din. 

"A  kinder  pity  you  should  just  bud  in  when 
I've  a  special  plan,"  said  Bill.  "Can't  you  go 
next  show?" 

"Next  show  in  Kansas  City?  No,  I  want  to  go 
to  Chicago." 

"Spen's  going  along,  too, ".said  Bill.  "Who'll 
mind  the  ranch?" 

"That  don't  matter — he's  no  use  at  home, "  said 
Toad.     "How  about  Buttress? " 

He'll  never!"  said  Din. 

Thought  you  were  friends, "  said  Toad. 

Cutout!"  said  Bill. 

Spen  ain't  any  use  for  a  job  of  this  sort, "  said 
Toad.  "He'd  just  hold  a  high  picnic  every  night, 
and  forget  the  horses  and  they'd  be  hanging  them- 


<< 


11 


a 


it 


144  The  Hunter 

selves  in  the  stables — to  git  quit  of  the  noise.  Ask 
Gregson — Tom  Gregson — there's  two  boys  to  the 
one  farm — and  Gregson  likes  horses.  He'll  do 
right  enough,  and  then  the  three  of  us  can  go  to 
Chicago." 

Bill  Din  was  silent,  but  not  satisfied.  He  told 
Spen  about  it,  and  that  man  looked  as  wise  as  an 
owl,  and  for  once  he  said  nothing.  The  fact  was, 
he  could  not  make  head  nor  tail  of  it. 

The  truth  was  simple,  too  simple  for  either  Bill 
or  Spen.  Toad  liked  to  do  everything  that  Bill 
did,  and  had  suddenly  decided  that  if  Bill  were 
going  to  Chicago  to  show  off  before  a  girl,  he 
would  go  and  do  the  same  thing. 

"There'll  sure  be  a  friend  of  Miss  Lake's,  and 
the  friend  will  do  for  me,"  said  the  high-spirited 
Toad.  "Bill  shall  never  be  able  to  say  that  his 
red-haired  partner  lagged  back." 

So  one  bright  spring  day  in  the  middle  of  March, 
three  young  men  boarded  a  car,  bound  for  Chicago. 
Bill  Din  was  groomed  to  a  high  degree  of  perfection, 
and  his  stern  gravity  gave  him  the  air  of  a  man 


Ari-wa-kis  in  Chicago  145 

worth  knowing.  Toad,  who  had  bought  a  new  suit 
for  the  occasion,  wore  a  speckled  green  tie,  to 
throw  his  auburn  hair  into  relief,  and  he  looked  like 
one  who  was  out  for  adventure.  Spen,  lanky  and 
supple,  with  the  expression  of  the  owl  redoubled, 
by  the  position  he  held  as  confidant  in  a  great 
emprise,  carried  a  pack  of  cards  in  his  pocket,  and 
a  new  suitcase  in  his  hand. 

"Beware  of  Chicago  slugs!"  said  a  man  to  the 
three  travellers. 

Spen  raised  his  eyebrows  in  lofty  scorn. 
They've  got  me!"  he  said. 
That's  sure  enough — what's  the  game?"  in- 
quired the  man. 

"A  girl,"  said  Spen,  "and  both  for  the  same!" 

"Gee,  your  hands  are  full!"  said  the  man. 

Spen  nodded,  and  as  the  train  rolled  out  of  the 
depot,  he  felt  as  big  as  an  Emperor. 

He  had  never  been  so  happy  in  all  his  life,  for 
Power  was  the  lover  he  wooed,  and  he  was  enjoy- 
ing her  presence. 


I* 


it 


10 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


BILL   RIDES    IN   CHICAGO 


BILL  did  not  sleep  much  the  night  before  the 
pony  running.  The  noise  of  the  city  dinned 
in  his  ears  and  the  sound  of  his  own  heart  roared  in 
his  brain.  He  repeated  his  thoughts  again  and 
again. 

"I  cannot  fail  because  Silvia  will  be  there.  It 
is  months  since  I  have  seen  Silvia  and  she  has 
asked  me  to  call.  And  Buttress  don't  understand 
her,  and  she  rented  Ari-wa-kis  to  me,  and  I  love 
her  better  than  any  one  ever  loved  any  one  before, 
and  I'll  win  her !  She'll  see  me  shining  at  my  work, 
and  she  knows  that  I  do  it  for  her;  and  when  it's 
over — when  the  running  is  over — she'll  receive  me 
— me !     Bill  Din !  me — the  winner ! ' ' 

How  could  a  man  sleep  when  such  thoughts  were 

146 


Bill  Rides  in  Chicago  147 

racing  through  his  brain;  while  a  strange  traffic 
reached  his  physical  ears,  like  a  grand  accompani- 
ment to  his  awakened  heart?  So  Bill  was  up  very 
early,  and  after  breakfast  made  some  excuse  to 
disappear  from  Spen  and  Lorraine.  He  called  at 
Beethoven  House,  where  he  met  Uncle  Dick  com- 
ing down  the  marble  steps  of  Silvia's  new  home. 

Seeing  a  good-looking  stranger,  the  oil  merchant 
paused,  and  remarked: 

"Can  I  be  of  any  use  to  you,  sir?" 

And  Din  replied:  "I  am  calling  to  see  Miss 
Lake,"  and  Uncle  Dick  went  back  to  the  house 
with  him,  took  Bill  into  a  large  well-furnished 
room,  and  walked  out  to  look  for  his  niece. 

" Silvia, "  he  said,  "he's  come." 

"Bill  Din?" 

"The  wild  Westerner  from  Ari-wa-kis,  whom 
we  are  going  to  see  at  the  horse  show. " 

"Uncle!"  said  Silvia,  "how  you  do  use  your 
imagination. " 

"You  think  I  have  none,  Silvia,  but  it  don't 
take  any  imagination  to  read  a  man's  name  on  a 


148  The  Hunter 

bill,  and  fit  it  to  a  figure  like  the  one  in  the  drawing- 


room.  ' 


So  saying  Uncle  Dick  went  out  to  a  committee 
meeting;  and  Silvia  went  to  meet  Bill,  after  six 
months'  absence. 

He  was  standing  looking  at  a  photo  group,  taken 
recently  in  Chicago ;  but  when  the  door  opened  he 
was  with  Silvia  in  an  instant. 

He  took  both  her  hands  and  wrung  them,  and 
she  winced  with  the  pain,  and  then  he  begged  a 
thousand  pardons,  and  looked  hard  at  her,  and 
said: 

"  You're  growing  thin — it's  ole  Chicago,  you 
want  the  fresh  air  of  Ari-wa-kis. " 

"Oh,  Bill,  you  do  look  like  the  good  ole 
days,"  she  cried.  "I'm  sure  tired  of  this  great 
Chicago." 

"Say,"  said  Bill,  "do  you  miss  them  Ari-wa-kis 
days?" 

She  nodded. 

"And  how  about — the  people — miss  us  some?" 

She  nodded  again,  afraid  to  speak,  for  a  wild 


Bill  Rides  in  Chicago  149 

emotion  disturbed  her,  and  she  did  not  wish  Bill 
to  guess  it. 

"I  must  quit  talkin',  got  some  work  to  do  before 
this  afternoon.  Say,  where'll  you  sit?  I'll  win 
if  I  can  see  you. " 

"Bill  Din,  you're  as  crazy  as  ever!" 

"  As  much  in  love  as  ever,  Silvia.  Say,  where'll 
you  sit?" 

Silvia  ran  out  and  came  back  with  a  plan  of  the 
stand,  and  showed  him  their  places. 

"What'll  you  wear?"  said  Bill.  "I'd  find  you 
without  knowing ;  but  I  want  to  be  good  and  quick 
to  spot  you — 'cos  every  minute  counts. ' 

"I'll  have  a  green  dress — like  those  leaves!" 
said  Silvia,  pointing  to  a  plant  at  their  feet.  ' '  And 
my  friend  Bertha  Martin  will  be  in  claret  red. 
And  when  the  show's  over  we'll  wait  at  the  white 
entrance  gate,  and  you'll  be  introduced  to  Bertha. 
I  hope  you'll  like  Bertha,  Bill." 

"Bertha,"  said  Bill,  rolling  his  eyes  to  the  ceil- 
ing. "WaT,  I've  gotten  a  friend  who'll  like  to  see 
her,  I'll  bet  my  boots.     I've  brought  Mr.  Lorraine 


150  The  Hunter 

with      me,      my     partner.        And      say — Spen's 
here!" 

"  Oh — Spen !  It's  a  wonder  he  ain't  come  along 
with  you." 

"Doesn't  know  I'm  here.  Good-bye  Silvia. 
I  can  scarcely  walk  out  o'  the  house  to  leave  you  in 
it.  But  there,  I'll  see  you  at  the  show.  You're 
in  green — like  that  plant. " 

"And  Bertha's  in  claret  red,"  said  Silvia. 

"Lorraine  will  be  certainly  delighted,"  said 
Bill,  as  he  went  down  the  marble  steps  into  the 
broad  paved  street. 

"They're    sure    high-tones    in    this    quarter,' 
said  Bill  to  himself.     "Wish  she  was  located  in  a 
log  cabin. " 

Bill  had  lunch  with  two  other  men  but  scarcely 
remembered  it — except  that  he  was  careful  what 
he  ate,  on  account  of  the  coming  sport. 

He  managed  to  see  Lorraine  alone,  for  a  few 
minutes,  when  Spen  was  looking  in  a  depot  for 
leather  goods. 

"Toad,"  said  Bill,  "Miss  Lake  brings  a  friend 


Bill  Rides  in  Chicago  151 

to  the  show  called  Miss  Bertha  Martin.  She'll  be 
in  claret  red  cloth. " 

"Sounds  interestin', "  said  Toad,  turning  a 
warmer  tint. 

"I'll  be  preoccupied  with  Miss  Lake,  owing  to 
the  fact  that  I'm  renting  land  from  her;  so  if  you'll 
give  Miss  Martin  your  care,  I'll  sure  appreciate  it. " 

"Certainly,  certainly,'  said  Toad,  with  enthu- 
siasm. "Leave  Miss  Martin  to  my  charge,  and 
I'll  see  she  has  a  good  time  all  right.  Say,  what '11 
she  wear?" 

"Claret  red  cloth,"  said  Bill. 

"Claret  red  cloth,"  repeated  Toad.  "That's 
a  real  fine  colour,  and  no  mistake.  Ain't  it  good 
that  I  came  along  now?" 

"It's  certainly  just  right,"  said  Bill. 

And  both  men  became  silent,  as  Spen  rejoined 
them. 

The  afternoon  was  fine,  and  the  last  few  days 
had  been  free  from  rain,  so  the  ground  was  in  good 
order.  Everything  that  happened  to  Bill  became 
like  the  parts  in  a  grand  dream.     The  great  mo- 


152  The  Hunter 

ment  had  come  at  last.  He  found  himself  astride 
his  pony,  cantering  out  before  a  sea  of  faces; 
and  immediately  he  allowed  all  Chicago  to  see 
him  search  for  the  lady  of  his  choice.  He  did  it 
slowly  and  deliberately.  Everybody  could  tell 
that  Bill  Din  was  looking  for  a  lady,  and  that  he 
cared  for  nobody  else  in  all  the  world.  He  found 
her  soon,  the  slender  green  speck,  with  opera- 
glasses  in  her  hand;  and  into  his  ardent  nature 
there  came  an  extension  of  strength,  will,  and  tact. 
It  seemed  to  Bill  that  anything  could  be  done,  so 
long  as  the  owner  of  the  green  dress  remained 
watching  his  movements. 

Silvia  was  sitting  next  to  Bertha  and  the  con- 
versation between  them  was  curious  and  broken. 

"Who  is  he?"  cried  Bertha,  gazing  at  Bill. 

"My  friend, "  said  Silvia. 

"He's  the  handsomest  man  I  ever  saw!"  said 
Bertha. 

"You've  seen  so  few,"  said  Silvia. 

"Surely  no,"  said  Bertha.  "Poppa's  having 
company  ever  so  often. " 


it 


<< 


11 


Bill  Rides  in  Chicago  153 

"But  then  you  don't  get  acquainted,  and  that 
makes  the  difference,"  said  Silvia.  "Don't  talk; 
you'll  miss  the  fun. " 

When  Bill  Din  won  a  race  and  Lorraine  came  in 
second,  Uncle  Dick  cheered  loudly  for  Ari-wa-kis. 
Who  is  the  Red-head?"  he  inquired  of  Silvia. 
Din's  partner,  Lorraine,"  said  Silvia. 
Both  champions,  sure,"  said  Uncle  Dick. 
"They  must  both  come  back  with  us. " 

The  clapping  was  tremendous  when  Bill  took  a 
first  for  pony  leaping,  and  another  for  pony  tricks. 
He  was  certainly  the  champion  of  the  field,  and  not 
another  boy  had  a  look  in  where  Bill  was  concerned. 
But  not  another  boy  there  had  Silvia  to  think  of, 
and  the  future  of  Silvia  to  dream  of,  and  Silvia's 
rich  uncle  to  appease;  and  not  another  boy  had 
gathered  so  much  hope  from  the  face  of  Silvia  in 
the  morning.  The  men  were  spent  with  their 
exertions  when  they  met  the  party  at  the  white 
gate,  but  Bill's  grey  eyes  did  all  and  more  than 
duty  for  his  tongue.  Uncle  Dick  and  Silvia  told 
him  he  was  the  first  pony  rider  in  U.  S.  A. — bar 


154  The  Hunter 

none,  and  all  he  did  was  to  gaze  steadily  at  Silvia, 
and  rub  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead  with  a 
large  green  handkerchief. 

"And  don't  forget  Lorraine,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  Lorraine  took  a  first  at  quick  harnessing — sure — 
that  was  another  good  hit  from  Ari-wa-kis. " 

11  Champion ! "  said  Uncle  Dick.  "  Mr.  Lorraine, 
you're  slick  with  your  fingers,  and  I'll  bet  a  fiver 
you  save  time  in  the  stables." 

Lorraine  bowed  low  and  he  was  introduced  to 
Bertha  Martin,  when  he  bowed  lower  still.  Uncle 
Dick,  who  was  effervescing  with  delight,  said  to 
Silvia  that  the  "Ari-wa-kis  boys  were  as  pliable 
as  india-rubber,"  and  then,  somehow  Uncle  Dick 
disappeared,  and  there  was  only  Silvia  and  Bill  and 
Bertha  and  Toad. 

The  sky,  which  had  appeared  a  dull  uniform  grey, 
immediately  turned  bright  blue;  and  without  the 
least  trouble  in  the  world,  the  two  couples  lost 
themselves.  They  lost  themselves  in  twos  and 
twos  and  Bill  said  to  Silvia : 

' '  That  uncle  of  yours  is  a  man  in  a  million  and 


Bill  Rides  in  Chicago  155 

I  just  hope  that  he  has  a  woman  of  gold  for  a 
partner.     He  deserves  the  best." 

But  one  man  had  been  neglected  and  that  was 
Spen.  He  had  been  kept  back  with  the  ponies, 
the  two  young  riders  begging  him  to  see  to  some 
business  for  them,  and  promising  faithfully  to 
await  him  at  the  white  gate. 

Traitors  to  their  henchman,  they  had  both  for- 
gotten him,  and  he  arrived  there  to  find  them 
walking  away  in  twos  and  twos. 

It  was  Silvia  who  noticed  his  absence,  and  asked 
Bill  why  Spen  had  not  joined  them. 

"For  pity's  sake, "  said  Bill.  "He  was  to  have 
met  us  here.  It's  no  use  going  back.  He  could 
have  joined  your  uncle.     For  pity's  sake!" 

"Let's  wire  him  to  take  dinner  at  Beethoven 
House,'  said  Silvia.  "Spen  likes  big  ways  of 
doing  things — that'll  take  the  sting  out  of  it  all. 
I'll  wire  him." 

So  they  went  into  a  telegraph  office  and  wired 
to  the  hotel;  and  then  the  two  young  people  took 
a  walk  into  one  of  the  parks. 


156  The  Hunter 

It  was  a  wonderful  afternoon,  and  considering 
the  early  spring,  lasted  well.  Silvia  asked  ques- 
tion after  question  about  the  land,  and  the  horses, 
and  the  dog,  and  the  lake. 

''And  Mr.  Buttress?"  she  asked. 

It  was  nearly  dusk,  and  Bill's  fierce  heart  got 
working  hard  at  this  moment. 

"Buttress — I  think  he's  changed — some,  Silvia." 

"And  Mr.  Buttress  is  very  well?"  inquired 
Silvia. 

"Is  there  anything  more  about  other  men  that 
is  real  interestin'  to  you?"  inquired  Bill,  gloomily. 

"There,  Bill — there — you're  mad!  You  sure 
make  me  crazy." 

"Me  too!"  said  Bill.  "Silvia,  you  don't  know 
more  than  a — baby — how  I  feel  when  you  go  ask- 
ing after  everybody  but  me. " 

"I  think  I  do,  Bill.  I  think  I  know  too  well. 
You  always  want  me  to  forget  everybody  but  you." 

They  were  coming  out  of  the  park,  and  Bill 
begged  her  to  forgive  him ;  for  the  sake  of  the  feel- 
ing that  lay  behind  it.     And  so  they  got  on  a 


Bill  Rides  in  Chicago  157 

car,  to  ride  to  the  quarter  where  homes  were 
ornamental. 

The  dinner  party  was  an  event  to  Spen  and 
Lorraine;  and  to  Bill  it  was  merely  part  of  the  big 
dream  in  which  Silvia  was  enshrined.  He  vowed 
to  himself,  as  he  pretended  to  take  soup,  fowl,  and 
entree,  that  before  the  night  was  over  Silvia  should 
be  his  girl. 

Aunt  Louisa,  cool  as  starch  can  make  white 
calico,  was  greatly  amused  with  the  Ari-wa-kis 
trio,  but  Bill  pleased  her.  Bill's  pride,  his  dignity, 
the  tremendous  importance  of  his  one  idea,  cut 
him  off  from  the  common-place. 

Uncle  Dick  saw  as  plainly  as  possible  that  the 
young  man  was  in  the  fiercest  stages  of  love's  fires, 
and  as  soon  as  dinner  was  over,  he  gave  the  young 
people  every  chance  to  see  more  of  one  another. 
He  kept  Spen  and  Aunt  Louisa,  and  Lorraine  and 
Bertha  busy  with  albums  and  music  and  curiosities. 
And  so,  quite  easily,  Bill  got  Silvia  to  himself. 

They  were  on  the  south  porch  where  Aunt 
Louisa  kept  her  best  ferns.     It  was  a  dark  night, 


158  The  Hunter 

no  moon,  no  stars.  Clouds  everywhere,  except 
in  Bill's  heart,  which  was  aflame  like  the  morning 
sun.  And  Silvia  was  quiet  and  nervous  and  not 
mistress  of  herself.  Ari-wa-kis  troubled  her. 
She  was  tired  of  Chicago.  And  Bill  was  like  a 
breath  of  Ari-wa-kis,  and  he  was  as  true  as  steel. 

"Silvia,  you  love  liberty,  I  know,"  he  said. 
"Don't  I  love  liberty  too?  We're  both  Americans, 
we're  under  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  and  we  can't 
think  outside  it.  Sure,  Silvia,  I've  waited  long  for 
this.  I've  loved  you  years  and  years!  I  am, 
God  knows,  a  desperately  lonely  fellow,  ranching 
away  with  Lorraine,  amongst  bunches  of  wild 
horses  and  miles  o'  prairie — I'm  first  man  any- 
where with  a  horse ;  but  I'm  the  loneliest  in  U.  S.  A. 
I'd  go  down  on  the  sod  to  my  death  for  you,  and 
never  feel  it  dying — true,  as  God's  word,  I 
wouldn't — I  love  you  so  true  and  tender — you 
so — why  Silvia,  if  you  ain't  meant  for  me,  I  should 
never  have  been  born." 

"Bill,"  said  Silvia  in  a  whisper,  "it  ain't  right. 
You  think  too  much  of  me. " 


Bill  Rides  in  Chicago  159 

"That  won't  hurt,  darling — lovin'  you  too  much 
is  a  good  fault  in  a  man ! " 

"But  it  hurts,  Bill,  it  hurts  liberty.  I  can't  be 
bound,  Bill!  I'm  liberty  lovin' — I'm  terrible 
liberty  lovin' — I  like  trust." 

"Sure,  didn't  I  trust  you!    Always,  always!" 

"But  you're  often  unhappy,  Bill,  just  because 
you  love  me. " 

"That's  'cos  you  ain't  given  me  the  promise. 
Give  me  the  promise!  Give  me  the  promise, 
Silvia.  Here,  on  this  blessed  porch,  say  Bill  Din's 
the  man!" 

Aunt  Louisa  came  out  with  a  watering  can  to 
look  after  her  ferns. 

Bill  thought  that  there  must  be  an  explosion,  the 
charge  to  his  feelings  was  so  violent.  Silvia  leapt 
to  her  feet  and  began  chattering  with  her  aunt,  and 
Bill  thought  how  clever  she  was — a  most  wonderful 
girl  to  throw  dust  in  the  eyes  of  the  lady ;  and  cer- 
tainly Silvia  did  it  with  ease  and  spirit.  But 
afterwards,  when  Bill  was  whispering  to  her  on 
the  south  porch,  and  when  he  had  pressed  her  to 


160  The  Hunter 

speak  the  one  word,  he  felt  that  her  cheek  was 
burning  with  fire,  as  though  she  had  suffered 
through  the  interruption. 

And  the  intuition  gave  Bill  some  vision — the 
aunt  was  the  cause  of  Silvia's  sufferings,  and  the 
cause  of  Silvia's  thinness,  and  the  cause  of  Silvia's 
wistful  eyes. 

"She  don't  understand  you,"  said  Bill,  "that 
aunt  of  yours. " 

Silvia  was  quiet,  very  quiet. 

"I'm  sure  sorry,"  he  said. 

"Uncle  Dick's  good,'    she  whispered. 

"Sure,  he's  a  jewel!  Silvia,  let  me  take  you 
from  her?     I'm  more'n  she  is." 

"You,"  whispered  Silvia.     "Heaps  more!" 

And  Bill  kissed  her,  and  the  fearful  loneliness 
of  the  six  months  melted  the  girl's  doubts.  She 
leaned  her  head  against  his  shoulder  and  felt  a 
few  moments'  sense  of  rest  as  she  gave  the  falter- 
ing word;  but,  following  it,  there  came  a  fierce 
overwhelming  surprise. 

"I'll  never,  never  forget  Louis  Buttress,"  she 


Bill  Rides  in  Chicago  161 

found  herself  repeating,  and  the  voice  came  from 
some  far  away,  deep,  distant  place.  After  that 
she  went  very  cold,  and  told  Bill  that  she  never 
wanted  to  marry  any  one. 

But  Bill  laughed  her  fears  away,  and  said  she 
was  always  a  doubter,  but  the  rest  of  the 
evening  was  strange  and  wan  to  Silvia  Lake.  It 
stretched  out  lengthily  in  ashen  colours.  Far 
away  in  the  depths  of  her  being,  she  had  found 
herself  a  prisoner. 

She  accepted  Bill's  joyous  whispers  in  dead 
silence. 

"She's  afraid  of  her  liberty  goin',"  said  Bill  to 
himself.  "  In  all  my  experience  of  life  I  never  did 
meet  any  one  that  so  hung  on  liberty,  but  sure  I'll 
see  she  has  all  she  wants  of  a  free  life — none  more 
so  than  me!  But  she's  frightened  of  havin'  her 
wings  clipped,  and  it  gives  her  the  blues. ' 

When  they  said  good-bye,  Silvia  was  quieter 
still: 

"I'll  write, "  she  said,  looking  sadly  at  him. 

"Sure!"  said  Bill. 


ii 


162  The  Hunter 

His  grey  eyes  gazed  triumphantly  at  the  girl, 
as  though  he  added:  "My  Silvia!" 

But  caution  kept  the  word  unexpressed.  Never- 
theless she  shuddered,  for  she  felt  its  force. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

SHERIDAN   FORESTALLS   SPEN'S   NEWS 

SHERIDAN,  going  into  Henrikson's  hardware 
store  in  Alamanca  Creek,  met  Spen  in  the 
doorway. 

'Hello!"  said  Spen.  "Never  seen  you  since 
Gregson  beat  you  in  that  darned  silly  argument 
'bout  acting.  Where's  Buttress?  What,  ain't 
you  still  with  him?  Tell  him  I've  been  in  Chi- 
cago, with  Bill  Din  and  Lorraine,  and  we've  carried 
off  the  hul'  show,  and  come  back  first  rate.  We 
seen  Miss  Lake,  too — seen  her  home  and  how 
she  lives,  and  Din's  a  welcome  guest.  'Taint  my 
business  to  let  out  the  truth,  but  Bill's  wedding 
day's  in  sight!" 

Sheridan  went  back  to  his  room  at  a  run.     The 
afternoon  was  warm,  but  he  knew  that  Buttress, 

who  had  been  in  town  over  some  work,  had  in- 

163 


164  The  Hunter 

tended  changing  some  books,  before  going  back 
to  Ari-wa-kis. 

"I  must  see  him,"  muttered  the  English- 
man. 

Buttress  had  not  gone.  He  had  the  books  in 
his  hand,  and  was  locking  the  door. 

"Come  back  a  minute,"  said  Sheridan.  He 
undid  the  door. 

Buttress  returned  into  the  room. 

"I  have  heard  news,"  said  Sheridan.  "Miss 
Lake  is  engaged  to  Bill  Din.  " 

Buttress  put  down  the  books  and  took  them  up, 
and  laid  them  back  again  and  walked  away  to  the 
door  before  he  spoke. 

"Thank  you, "  he  said  with  an  effort.  "Thank 
you  for  all  you've  done — 'bout  me!" 

"I'd  have  done  something  serviceable  if  I  could, 
instead  of  telling  you  this,  and  I  beg  you  to  forgive 
me  for  speaking  of  it.  I'd  go  and  see  her,  Buttress. 
It  was  only  Spen  who  told  me!" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Buttress,  again.  "You  see 
it  ain't  a  bit  o'  use." 


Sheridan  Forestalls  Spen's  News     165 

And  he  opened  the  door,  and  went  out  into  Main 
Street. 

Sheridan  looked  angrily  at  the  books.  He 
pushed  them  away,  so  that  they  fell  on  the  floor. 

He  went  to  the  cupboard  and  got  out  a  bottle  of 
brandy.  He  prepared  a  drink  for  himself  and 
took  it  off  at  a  draught. 

Putting  everything  away  again,  he  came  out 
into  the  street. 


CHAPTER   XX 

"WHY  WAS   I   BORN?" 

BUTTRESS  was  thankful  to  get  into  the  air. 
It  was  a  clear  and  bright  evening,  and  the 
sun  was  setting.     A  sigh  of  relief  escaped  him. 

He  walked  away  towards  Ari-wa-kis.  It  was  a 
slow  descent  for  a  mile  and  a  half;  and  then  a 
slight  rise,  as  the  wooded  slopes  of  the  lake  came 
in  view.  Louis  never  looked  at  the  water.  He 
was  humming  an  air.  It  was  Fielding's  famous 
hunting  song :  and  an  hour  had  passed  sounded  by 
Alamanca  Church  clock,  before  he  reached  his 
cabin.  The  dogs  soon  discovered  him  and  came 
out  to  meet  him.  Their  greeting  thawed  his  feel- 
ings, and  he  spoke  to  them  in  a  different  voice. 
Presently  they  failed  to  elicit  a  sound  from  their 
master.  He  entered  the  unlocked  cabin  and  went 
for  matches. 

166 


/'Why  Was  I  Born?"  167 

Having  got  them,  he  threw  them  away  again. 

He  sat  down  on  a  bench. 

Thoughts  came  tumult  uously  —  then,  they 
stopped  altogether,  and  he  sat  in  a  stupor.  He 
sat  for  many  hours. 

Morning  broke  gently  over  Ari-wa-kis  slopes. 

He  went  out  with  his  gun  and  took  to  the  woods, 
followed  by  both  dogs. 

So,  for  three  days,  Buttress  did  nothing  but  rove, 
hunt,  and  meditate.  The  cabin  was  deserted  by 
day,  and  was  a  sorry  place  at  night.  He  was  there 
at  night  sometimes  to  add  to  its  melancholy; 
but  not  always,  for  often  he  tramped  the  woods. 
He  did  some  curious  things  in  those  few  days.  He 
took  to  writing  in  pencil  on  the  walls  of  the  cabin. 

Simon  watched  him,  and  would  lick  Louis's 
hands  after  it  was  done.  He  wrote:  " Where  is 
God?"  "Why  am  I  here?"  "Who  made  me  go 
through  these  days?" 

He  would  sit  and  stare  at  his  own  handwriting, 
as  if  someone  else  had  done  it. 

Once  he  wrote:     "What  is  death?"  and  began 


168  The  Hunter 

the  answer — ''The  dividing  place  between  the 
body  and  the " 

He  heard  someone  coming  and  threw  the  pencil 
away. 

"If  it  is  Bill  Din,  he  will  know  it,"  he 
said. 

The  steps  died  away.  It  had  been  Spen;  but 
the  absence  of  smoke  from  the  hunter's  chimney 
had  sent  the  man  off  without  further  searching. 
Louis  meant  the  man  to  think  he  was  away. 

"Now  I  am  tired  of  the  best — I  will  enjoy  the 
worst — yes,  I  think  I  could  enjoy  the  worst,"  he 
said. 

And  he  smiled  to  himself. 

"Bill  Din  won  her.  Yes.  But  he  must  take 
care.     No  one  knows  the  real  Silvia  but  me!" 

"Life  is  full  of  mistakes, "  he  said.  "She'll  find 
it  out  too  late." 

Here  Buttress  rubbed  his  unshaven  chin,  and 
grew  ominous  looking,  so  that  the  dogs  cocked 
their  ears  and  stood  at  attention.  All  he  said  was : 
"To  prevent  mistakes,  I  ought  to  act."     Then  he 


"Why  Was  I  Born?"  169 

laughed  scornfully: — "I  have  no  power  over  any 
mortal  creature,  barring  dogs  and  beasts." 

"And  the  man  has  good  reason  to  be  chosen. 
Looks  are  something.  Physical  being  is  a  reason. 
Character — good!  I  venture  to  say,  Simon,  that 
she  chooses  right,  without  knowing  why!" 

There  came  one  morning,  when  the  day  was  hot. 
Louis,  going  out  with  his  gun,  caught  sight  of  a 
"Bob  White"  perched  on  the  topmost  branch  of 
a  tree.  The  bird,  uttering  its  syllabic  notes,  flew 
ahead  into  the  blue  ether,  only  to  repeat  the  sounds 
again  and  again  whenever  he  found  an  inviting 
branch.  Wandering  into  the  brush,  the  man  saw 
a  bluebird  dart  out  of  the  willows,  and  the  gleam 
of  the  soft-blue  wings  gave  the  hunter  a  moment- 
ary joy.  Then,  realizing  what  his  life  had  come 
to,  he  stared  at  it,  in  angry  wonder. 

"There  was  I — a  happy  man — huntin' — doin' 
nobody  any  harm.  Then  I  tried  to  'better  my- 
self,' as  Mother  called  it,  and  I  got  this  for  my 
pains.  All  is  spoiled.  What  does  it  mean?  What 
does  it  mean,  but  that  Father  was  right,  and  it 


170  The  Hunter 

is  best  to  stay  down  in  peace,  even  if  it  ain't 


movin'." 


"  Father  was  good  to  me — "  he  muttered — 
"Father  was  best  I  have  ever  had.  I  can  see  him, 
a  droppin'  his  work  like  a  shot  if  I  looked  at  him 
for  somethin' — Father  answered  all  my  questions 
— some  of  'em  was  queer  questions,  and  queer 
answers,  but  Father  done  his  best.  Father  was 
A  i.  And  poor  Mother  died  before  I  could  recall 
her  features!  Many's  the  picnic  we've  had  in  the 
woods  together.  That  was  my  life — that  was! 
That  was  a  bit  of  living.  Then,  came  hunting — 
Well — it  was  fine  sport — and  now — it's  lost  in 
this  bad  fog — this  wicked  fog  of  trying  to  be  more 
than  I  am!" 

Louis  was  diving  into  the  woods  now,  and  with 
practised  feet  finding  the  way  to  his  best 
places. 

"Let  Bill  marry  her,"  he  said.  "I  say  let  him 
do  it.  And  there's  an  end  to  it.  Oh,  Silvia, 
Silvia!  You've  done  me.  You've  sure  done  for 
the  hunter!     Men   like   me   ain't    bits  of  pawns 


"Why  Was  I  Born?"  171 

and  nine-pins  to  be  knocked  down,  to  be  picked 
up.  I'm  sure  done  with  rising — I'm  for  the  down- 
road  now,  and  put  there  by •" 

Louis  stopped  because  he  had  seen  a  coon.  The 
little  animal,  high  in  the  branches  of  an  oak  tree, 
was  grinning  madly  at  him,  with  soft  shining  eyes. 
The  two  dogs  began  barking  furiously. 

"Come  off!"  said  Louis.  "Let  her  alone — ger* 
off!  Up  a  tree  like  me — leave  her,  you  two  cruel 
hounds!" 

And  he  kicked  Simon,  who  whined  in  expostu- 
lation; and  maddened  with  a  blow,  where  he  ex- 
pected love,    crept   away  with   pitiful   moaning. 

"The  beast  feels  like  me,"  said  Louis,  watching 
him.  "There  he  goes,  wounded  to  the  heart.  Wal, 
he's  one  in  a  majority.  Guess  it  is  life.  Sheridan 
was  hit  hard.  And  Bill  will  be — yes,  Bill  will  be! 
I  could  hit  Bill  hard.  I  bet  the  blow  I  could  give 
Bill  would  sure  finish  him. " 

Louis  Buttress  paused  to  consider  how,  and 
cried: — "  It  ain't  Bill  that  knows  her,  it  is  Buttress, 
the  ole  hunter.     He  knows  her.     He  can  make  her 


172  The  Hunter 

forget  Bill.  I'll  not  be  dull  any  more.  I'll  have 
plenty  to  do.  There's  great  work  besides  the 
huntin'  for  me!  I'm  down — I  never  was  nothin' — 
and  so — there — now  I'll  enjoy — the  game — you've 
left  me,  Silvia!     I'll " 

And  then  he  got  a  sudden  shock  for  he  saw  that 
he  had  nearly  penetrated  to  the  edge  of  the  lake; 
and  would  in  another  minute  see  the  south  bank 
of  Ari-wa-kis. 

It  was  months  since  he  had  been  here,  not  since 
the  time  immediately  before  Silvester  Lake's  death. 
He  drew  carefully  out  of  the  brush,  noting  the 
ground,  for  fear  of  morass;  and  presently  the  trees 
fell  backwards,  leaving  only  the  mass  of  brush  that 
ran  down  to  the  water.  There  was  a  welter  of 
spring  greens  shaking  in  the  morning  breeze,  from 
the  yellow  red  of  budding  oaks,  to  the  pale  green 
of  wild-cherry  blossom  wands,  waving  delicately 
like  moving  spirits. 

With  his  weary  eyes  Louis  sought  to  scan  the 
water,  searching  as  by  instinct  for  game  of  some 
sort;  and  suddenly,  he  could  not  tell  how  it  came, 


"Why  Was  I  Born?',  173 

but  the  sweat  broke  out  on  his  forehead,  and  a 
sharp  cool  agony  enveloped  him. 

"Why  was  I  born?"  he  muttered. 

The  silence  was  in  the  heat  of  midday,  and  yet 
Louis  was  shivering  with  cold;  and  Simon,  awed 
by  the  same  feeling,  stood  close  by,  mute  and 
still. 

"I  know,'  said  Louis,  "why  I  came  here.  I 
came  here  for  the  truth.  I  wronged  her.  I 
wronged  Silvia.  I  wronged  Bill  Din  with  hard 
thoughts.  I  laughed  at  them  all  in  my  ignorance. 
And  then  I  was  worse  than  all  of  them  put  together, 
I  wanted  the  woman.  There  I  was,  same  as  an- 
other, caught  on  the  wheel  I'd  sure  scorned,  and 
ready  for  any  thin'  to  get  my  way.  Readier  than 
another  to  stoop  to  it!  Justice!  There  ain't  none 
from  man  to  man — 'cept  by  accident — God 
Almighty  knows  when  we  get  it  and  when  we 
don't!  We  deal  it  out  crooked  as  our  thoughts." 

He  stumbled  along,  a  little  nearer  the  water; 
until  its  coolness  touched  him,  with  a  wave  of 
damper  air  coming  from  its  surface.     "There  I 


174  The  Hunter 

seen  her  first,"  he  said.     "It  was  sure  trust:     I 
carry  it  to  my  grave." 

"Ah,  Simon,"  he  cried,  "you  may  lick  me 
though  I  don't  deserve  it.  I  think  I've  gone 
mad." 

Buttress  turned  away    from    the  water;    and 
scrambling  through  the  brush,  with  Simon  and  m 
Testy  almost  on  him,  he  slowly  returned  to  the 
log-cabin. 

The  cabin  door  was  wide  open. 

The  hunter  went  into  the  hut,  and  shut  the  door. 


CHAPTER   XXI 


"i'm  like  the  foxes" 


A  YOUNG  moon  came  up  over  the  prairie,  so 
clear  and  lambent  that  the  wave  in  the 
grass  could  be  seen.  Bill  Din  sat  on  the  wooden 
steps  outside  the  kitchen  door. 

Toad  had  been  to  the  mail-box,  and  he  threw  a 
letter  at  Bill  and  went  into  the  house. 

It  was  an  unstamped  letter  and  bore  a  laboured 
handwriting,  which  was  unknown  to  the  pony  boy. 
He  got  up  from  his  seat  at  the  door  and  followed 
Lorraine  into  the  living-room. 

The  lamp  was  lit  and  Toad  was  reading  a  stock- 
paper,  standing  close  to  the  table.     Bill  followed 

his  example  and  undid  the  letter.     Its  contents 
surprised  him  very  much. 

Dear  Bill  Din  : — The  dogs  are  yours,  that's  all  I 
care  to  leave.     I've  done  with  Ari-wa-kis  for  this  life. 

i75 


176  The  Hunter 

Never  hunt  me  out.     I'm  like  the  foxes,  I'm  going 
where  none  can  get  me. 

Yours  respectfully, 

Louis  Buttress. 

Bill  read  the  letter  again,  and  turned  it  carefully 
over,  but  there  was  no  more  information  to  be 
gained  from  the  paper. 

*  'Funny  of  Buttress, ' '  he  said  to  himself.  '  'What's 
gone  wrong  ?" 

He  came  out  into  the  yard,  and  looked  across 
the  prairie. 

"No,  I  can't  make  it  out.  S'pose  he'll  leave 
his  bit  of  land  to  go  to  pieces.  That's  like 
Buttress — no  commerce  in  him.  What's  gotten 
hold  of  him?" 

Speculating,  Bill  went  to  the  stables  and  saddled 
Gin-fly.  He  decided  to  ride  over  to  the  log-hut, 
and  have  a  look  at  things. 

It  was  a  lovely  spring  night,  and  Bill's  thoughts 
roved  to  Silvia  and  the  plans  they  would  have 
together,  and  while  doing  this,  time  sped  on  wings, 
and  he  found  himself  nearing  Buttress's  place, 


"I'm  Like  the  Foxes"  177 

without  much  more  thought  about  the  hunter. 

Dismounting  and  tying  up  the  horse,  he  went  up 

to  the  door  of  the  cabin,  only  to  find  it  locked,  but 

the  window  gave  under  his  vigorous  pushes,  and 

the  pony  boy,  holding  it  up,  clambered  into  the 

room. 
12 


CHAPTER  XXII 


"a  hunter's  motto" 


HE  made  such  an  effort  getting  into  the  room, 
that  he  upset  some  papers.  He  took  them 
up  and  placed  them  back  on  the  bracket,  putting 
a  brush  and  comb  on  top  of  them. 

Doing  this  he  saw  the  pencil  marks  on  the  wall, 
and  read :  ' '  Where  is  God  ? ' ' 

1 '  Poor  ole  Buttress ! ' '  said  Din,  tenderly.  ' '  He's 
worried  more'n  any  of  us  would  have  thought. 
And  what's  this?"  he  cried,  marking  out  more 
words  written  in  lead  pencil;  and  there  he  saw: 
"O,  Silvia,  Silvia!" 

Din  gazed  at  the  writing  in  blank  amazement, 

and  went  round  the  room,  investigating.     He  saw 

the  words:    "What  is  death?"   and  he  read  the 

answer  where  it  broke  off,  and  then  he  came  to 

178 


"A  Hunter's  Motto"  179 

one  line,  which  he  could  not  leave.  It  was  "She 
makes  me  live." 

"That's  true,"  said  Bill,  biting  his  lip.  "Who 
would  have  thought  he  knew  so  much?  " 

And  then  he  read:  "He  that  has  the  deer, 
never  hunted  him." 

"That's  good, "  said  Bill,  "but  it  ain't  a  hunter's 
motto.  It's  a  queer  thing  to  write  out  a  heart  on 
the  walls  of  a  hut,  for  it  might  any  minute  be  made 
public.     I'd  sure  leave  it  in  my  soul." 

And  he  went  forward  with  his  work.  So  roam- 
ing about  the  room,  in  a  peculiar  mood  of  sympathy 
and  some  similar  pain,  Bill  chanced  on  an  open 
letter,  left  on  the  hunter's  table.  It  had  evidently 
been  intended  for  the  fire  and  rescued;  and  Bill 
seeing  the  familiar  writing,  felt  a  tingling  like  the 
fire  go  through  his  frame.  He  must  see  that  one 
letter,  which  poor  Buttress  had  refused  him. 

It  was  altogether  a  scorching  affair,  whether 
read  or  left,  but  Bill  read  it.  And  he  got  his  re- 
ward. He  put  it  back  on  the  table,  with  stiff 
fingers,    saying    in    a    troubled    voice:   ''That's 


180  The  Hunter 

strange  —  she  never,  no  never,  wrote  so  kind 
to  me!" 

"No,  never!"  repeated  Bill,  looking  wildly 
round  the  room. 

And  he  crept  out  of  the  window,  and  stuffed  it 
with  rags,  and  made  it  tight  as  a  vice. 

None  must  learn  the  poor  hunter's  secret. 

And  then  Bill  went  galloping  home  to  the 
prairie  land. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
"why  believe  spen?" 

BUTTRESS  got  off  the  train  at  Chicago,  on  his 
way  to  Canada,  and  found  he  had  two  hours 
to  wait  before  he  went  North ;  so  he  walked  out  of 
the  depot,  and  came  into  Michigan  Avenue. 

"  'Twas  Spen  told  the  news  to  Sheridan,"  he 
said,  "and  when  did  Spen  ever  tell  a  tale  like 
reality?" 

And  as  he  said  these  words  Buttress  gazed  across 
the  lake. 

He  stood  on  the  pavement  considering  every- 
thing. 

"Two  hours.  I  could  see  her.  Why  believe 
Spen?" 

He  looked  about  him. 
Suppose  it  was  true?     Where's  the  harm  in 

181 


i « 


1 82  The  Hunter 

sayin'  Good-bye?  Why  ain 't  I  to  have  the  words 
from  Silvia?  It's  come  to  this  with  me,  I'm  bound 
to  see  her." 

Buttress  went  back  to  the  depot  and  got  direc- 
tions. He  took  a  car  for  some  distance  and  then 
his  way  was  along  streets  shaded  with  trees  now 
shaking  out  their  spring  dresses,  and  the  sky  above 
him  was  blue.  It  was  one  of  the  first  hot  days  of 
spring,  and  in  its  warmth  the  grass  of  the  prairie 
would  be  leaping  into  colour  and  life ;  but  it  was  like 
a  sudden  summer  in  the  confines  of  the  city,  and 
a  languor  was  over  everything.  Louis  asked  his 
way  many  times  and  was  always  directed  with 
care  and  interest.  The  house  that  surprised  the 
pony  boys  produced  no  feeling  in  the  hunter  be- 
yond the  knowledge  that  Silvia  was  now  within 
reach  of  his  voice. 

Buttress  saw  her  writing  in  the  window  at  a 

small  table,  and  the  maid  who  had  admitted  him, 

took  him  into  this  room  and  shut  the  door. 

Silvia  looked  up  and  started  to  her  feet. 
Buttress  came  forward. 


"Why  Believe  Spen?"  183 


11 


I  hear  you  are  to  marry  Bill  Din,  but  still, 
somethin'  made  me  come  this  morning  to  ask  you 
if  it  is  true?" 

"Somethin'  made  you  come — what  was  it  done 
it,  Louis?"  she  cried. 

"Silvester  Lake's  daughter  can  know  the  s^ory 
of  the  old  hunter.  He  loved  the  hunt  and  he  loved 
the  wilds  and  he  loved  the  world  of  dumb  creatures 
to  a  far  degree,  and  carried  out  his  pleasure  to  the 
top  of  his  bent.  And  he  lived  full  and  beautiful, 
he  did,  and  there  ain't  nothin'  shifted  him 
from  his  deepest  desires,  till,  at  last,  one  day,  in 
God's  good  will,  he  seen  a  woman  whom  he 
naturally  loved  above  all,  and  she  was  Silvesters 
daughter.  And  he  loved  her  at  a  distance  for 
many  a  day — 'twas  a  thought  on  a  hill  top — but  in 
God's  will  she  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  his 
thoughts,  and  then  he  loved  her,  nearer  too — 
he  did — kinder  close — nearer  too — and  it  come 
to  be  her  life,  more'n  all  else,  that  held  him  to 
life." 

Silvia  had  been  listening  with  her  face  turned 


1 84  The  Hunter 

away  from  Louis,  but  when  he  stopped  speaking 
she  walked  up  to  him  and  stood  beside  him. 

"You  don't  say  nothin',"  he  said.  "You're 
amazed  at  my  thinkin'  things  out,  but  I'm  bound 
to  tell  you  that  you've  ordered  my  life  out  of  its 
course.  Still,  I  wouldn't  undo  it,  I  wouldn't  go 
back  on  the  ole  rut  for  nothin' — not  whatever 
comes  of  it.  You've  made  me  human,  Silvia 
Lake;  I'm  related  to  common  humanity  by  the 
bonds  of  natural  feelin'  and,  strange  to  tell,  you 
done  it,  without  meanin'  it. — All  the  things  that's 
done  natural  tells  a  livin'  tale.  You  don't  speak. 
Can't  you  say  a  word  to  your  ole  neighbour?' 

"Why  did  you  wait  until  now?"  cried  Silvia. 

"You  plead  with  me!  You  cry  out!  But  what 
have  I  done?" 

"Louis!  Louis!"  said  Silvia,  "why  didn't  you 
say  it  long  ago?" 

"What  have  I  done,  Silvia  Lake?" 

"I  wish  you'd  told  me  long  ago. " 

"What  should  I  have  tole  you,  my  dear  girl?' 

"All  about  what  you  felt,  Louis.     You  shouldn't 


"Why  Believe  Spen?"  185 

have  stood  back,  only  to  tell  me  now.  I  told  you 
in  the  desert  how  I'd  found  my  life  empty.  I  told 
you  I  knew  more'n  you  did!  So  I  did!  You 
don't  know  the  life  I've  led,  nor  what  you've 
meant  to  me!  If  you  did  know  you'd  have  come 
long  ago.  I've  lived  up  there  at  Ari-wa-kis, 
actin'  like  I  didn't  care  or  think;  but  all  the 
time  I  was  thinking  and  living  and  seeing  what 
things  meant.  And  many  a  time  I've  been  pretty 
sick  of  everything  I  seen  and  heard — it  was  so 
mean  and  poor  and  bad.  And  you  were  neighbour 
to  us,  but  you  never  looked  in  to  see  Dad  and 
me — you  never  looked  in  once  in  your  life. " 

"It  was  presumption,  Silvia.  It  was  beyond 
me  to  think  of  it. " 

'You  think  of  it  now.  And  you  come  and  tell 
me.  You  might  have  come  sooner  if  you  hadn't 
loved  the  woods  better'n  me !  But  you've  come, 
and  you've  told  me,  and  I've  heard  you,  and  I 
tell  you  that  I  love  you.  And  I'll  have  you  now, 
Louis,  though  you  might  have  come  long  since — 
still,  I'll  have  you  now — and  I'll  keep  you  to  it." 


1 86  The  Hunter 

"Silvia,  this  is  a  maddening,  joyous  surprise." 

"It'll  last  till  Doomsday  then,  for  it's  come  out 
of  everything  good.  Oh,  Louis,  little  did  I  think 
this  morning  that  you'd  be  here!  Little,  little  did 
I  think !     I  wish  I '  d  known  it ! " 

"Silvia,  what  about  Bill  Din?" 

"What— about  Bill— nothin' !  Oh,  Louis,  let's 
forget!  There's  nothin'  about  Bill,  from  my  soul 
I'll  say  it!" 

"We  can't  forget  Bill,  and  that  the  poor  fellow 
loves  you  real  well,  same  as  me,  and  we  can't  forget 
that  he's  been  here  for  the  races,  and  that  I  come 
here  thinkin'  he  was  first  with  you — you've 
been  friends,  Silvia,  and  you've  made  him  your 
companion ' ' 

"So  I  did — Louis.  But  I  never  promised  Bill 
Din — I  never  promised!" 

"I'm  a  blamed  happy  fellow,  then!  And  now 
I'm  going  North  to  see  what  I  can  make  of  myself, 
and  when  I've  made  good,  I'll  come  back  for  you.  " 

"You're  good  enough  for  me,  Louis.  Don't 
leave  me." 


"Why  Believe  Spen?"  187 

"But  I've  got  to  be  a  somebody  now,  for  your 
sake!" 

"I  tell  you,  Louis,  that  from  my  experience  of 
life,  I'd  rather  have  you  now,  than  wait  for  you  to 
be  made  good." 

"Maybe  you're  right,  Silvia.  I  don't  know  but 
what  you  ain't  jist  right. " 

"You  should  trust,  Louis.     I'll  trust." 

Buttress  considered  for  several  moments,  and 
then  said :  ' '  We'll  trust.  We'll  go  North  together ; 
that'll  be  fine!  I'll  see  your  uncle.  What  age  are 
you,  Silvia?" 

"Nineteen,  and  far  more  than  nineteen  in  ex- 
periencing life.  I  can  see  good  and  bad,  as  clear  as 
night  and  day.  And  I'm  pretty  nearly  dead  with 
the  life  in  Chicago.  There's  no  meaning  in  the 
city  life  for  me,  and  there  ain't  a  breath  of  the 
woods  in  Chicago,  unless  I  dream  of  them  at  night. 
And  I  like  you  as  you  are,    Louis,  just  as  you 


are! 
<  < 


l" 


Then  now  for  your  uncle,"  said   Buttress. 
The  trouble  will  be  with  Aunt  Louisa, "  said 


188  The  Hunter 

Silvia,  as  she  led  the  way  to  the  dining-room,  "  but 
the  thing  must  be  done,  whatever  the  trouble,  be- 
cause we've  both  got  to  make  good — me  as  well  as 
you,  and  we're  best  righting  our  battles  together.  " 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

UNCLE   DICK  IS   SURPRISED 

TO  this  Louis  Buttress  made  no  reply,  but  he 
followed  Silvia  to  the  dining-room,  where 
Uncle  Dick  was  studying  Forest  Lore.  The  last 
two  or  three  pages  had  not  served  to  hold  Richard 
Sugden's  attention.  Bill  Din  had  been  in  his  mind. 
He  had  been  wondering  if  it  were  wise  to  separate 
Silvia  Lake  from  her  companion  by  this  new  life  in 
Chicago.  He  had  been  wondering  if  it  would  not 
have  been  better  if  she  had  remained  at  Ari-wa-kis. 
He  had  been  wondering  if  two  temperaments  that 
have  nothing  in  common,  as  this  aunt  and  niece, 
could  ever  benefit  by  living  under  the  same  roof; 
and  right  into  the  midst  of  all  this  conjecturing 
came  Silvia  Lake  with  Louis  Buttress. 

Uncle  Dick  saw  a  tall,  broad-set  man,  whose  eyes 

held  him  in  an  instant. 

189 


190  The  Hunter 

"Mr.  Buttress  wants  to  speak  to  you,  Uncle 
Dick,"  said  Silvia.  "He's  my  neighbour  at 
Ari-wa-kis. " 

She  went  out  shutting  the  door,  and  the  two  men 
stood  looking  at  one  another. 

"My  niece's  property  is  not  to  be  sold,"  said 
Sugden,  beginning  where  he  thought  there  was  a 
subject. 

"I  ain't  got  any  interest  in  her  property, "  said 
Buttress  drily. 

Sugden  looked  at  the  man.     ' '  Then  what  do  you 
want?"  he  said. 
Silvia  Lake." 

My  niece !    What  on  earth  have  you  to  do  with 
my  niece?" 

"She  has  promised  to  marry  me,  and  as  I 
am  going  into  Canada  I  want  to  take  her  with 


<  < 


<  < 


me." 


<  < . 


'This  is  amazing!"  cried  Uncle  Dick.  "What 
about  Din?"  he  continued.  "What  about  the 
man  who  has  the  pony  ranch?" 

Buttress's  eyes  flickered,  but  he  said  nothing. 


Uncle  Dick  Is  Surprised  191 

He  continued  to  gaze  at  Sugden,  waiting  for  the 


answer. 


I  had  always  understood,  that  Din  was  the  man 
who  would  talk  to  me  like  this.  My  niece  has 
accepted  you  ?  Is  this  done  in  some  mood  or  whim  ? 
My  niece  is  not  grown  up,  and  I  should  advise  you 
to  take  little  heed  of  what  she  says  to  you.  You 
wait,  Mr.  Buttress,  wait,  and  don't  build  on  this. " 

Louis  Buttress  drew  a  step  nearer,  and  said 
firmly:  "Her  mind  and  my  mind  is  made  up. 
We'll  marry.  You  may  think  it  all  a  'flash  in  the 
pan'  and  nothin'  to  last,  but  there  you're  right  out 
of  it.  She  and  I  understand  one  another.  She's 
young,  I  know,  and  all  before  her,  but  I'm  older — 
and  I'll  sure  take  care  of  her. " 

' '  You're  a  mad-man, ' '  said  Uncle  Dick.  ' '  Your 
pluck  is — visionary!  Din's  been  the  man  up  till 
now,  I'm  sorry  for  you.  You  are  most  praise- 
worthy, but  you're  putting  all  your  venture " 

Uncle  Dick  paused,  and  added  in  a  lower 
voice :  "  In  caprice,  youth's  caprice. " 

"Caprice!"  said  Buttress.     "This  ain't  a  matter 


192  The  Hunter 

of  doubt.  This  comes  from  the  heart.  God 
fashioned  hearts  before  men  fashioned  words. 
There's  some  things  known  before  words.  Silvia 
Lake  is  the  woman  for  me." 

Richard  Sugden  drew  back  several  steps  from 
the  hunter  and  looked  at  him  out  of  his  far-away, 
pale  eyes,  with  their  wistful  eyebrows.  All  at  once, 
it  seemed  to  Silvia's  uncle  as  if  he  were  a  boy  again 
and  the  spring  had  come  and  the  maple  trees — the 
sap — the  melting  snows.  He  immediately  stopped 
the  picture  that  was  rising,  and  looking  sharply  at 
the  hunter,  said,  briskly:  "I  must  see  my  niece, 
of  course.  Your  purpose  is  so  well  pursued  that 
I  feel  like  seeing  you  again.  Come  again.  But 
once  more  let  me  remind  you  of  the  fearful  ship- 
wreck there  is  when  men  venture  solid  goods  on 
airy  skiffs — fancy  rules  youth. " 

"Oh,  I'll  come  again,"  said  Buttress. 

And  with  these  words,  he  went  out  into  the 
street. 

Uncle  Dick  stood  alone  in  the  quiet  dining-room, 
with    his    thumb    and    ringer    on     Forest   Lore, 


Uncle  Dick  Is  Surprised  193 

saying  to  himself  in  a  pensive  voice:  "How  he 
takes  me  back  to  the  days  when  I  could  run  and 
leap  and  believe  and  live!  How  slowly  time  im- 
prisons us,  until — dear,  dear  me,  what  course  shall 

I  pursue?" 
13 


CHAPTER  XXV 


"  AND  UNCLE  DICK  WORRIES" 


SILVIA  found  her  uncle  thinking  hard  and 
began  at  once:  "Uncle  Dick,  it  ain't  a  bit  of 
use.  You  must  just  say  'Yes'  and  let  me  go.  You 
see  you  ain't  brought  me  up.  Dad  did  it.  And  he 
did  it  his  own  way.  I'm  Dad's  child,  and  that's 
all  there  is  to  it.  When  I  think  a  thing's  right,  it's 
got  to  be  done,  or  there'll  be  some  running  away  to 
git  liberty.  You'll  save  yourself  a  lot  of  trouble, 
and  me  a  lot  of  scheming,  and  Aunt  Louisa  will  be 
real  glad — once  she  knows!" 

"That's  not  my  thought,  Silvia.  I'm  thinking 
of  the  young  man  who  won  the  races. " 

"Why?     That's  nothin'  to  do  with  what  I'm 

telling  you  now.     I'm  telling  you  that  Louis  and  I 

mean  to  get  married  next  week.     Don't  you  think 

194 


"And  Uncle  Dick  Worries"      195 

he's  good  and  solid  enough  to  mind  two  people's 
affairs?  Louis  understands  me.  He  don't  boss. 
If  I'm  bossed  I  ain't  a  bit  o'  use  to  anybody  in  this 
world — I  git  so  mad,  I  could  spoil  the  whole  house. 
I'm  real  sorry  about  Aunt  Louisa,  Uncle  Dick, 
but  we'll  never  be  friends.  Best  way  out  is  this 
way.  Ain't  you  pleased  with  Louis  Buttress? 
Ain't  he  great?" 

But  you're  young.  Here's  a  chance  at  college, 
you'll  never  get  it  again,  and  you're  shutting  up  the 
book  of  knowledge,  all  because  you're  a  bit  tired  of 
Chicago  and  life  here,  and  you  want  a  romp  in  the 
woods.     That's  the  truth  in  a  nut-shell." 

41  There  you  don't  know  me,  Uncle  Dick !  Talk- 
in'  more  as  if  I  were  fifteen  than  nearly  nineteen 
and  more  as  if  I  was  one  of  these  kids  that  never 
managed  their  own  affairs  than  a  girl  that's  kept 
house  for  her  father  ever  since  she  could  run  about. 
And  I've  managed  everything  and  everybody,  and 
I  don't  believe  very  good  in  these  late  marriages — 
the  sooner  you  git  settled  down  to  work,  the  better 
for  the  world.     Once  I'm  Mrs.  Louis  Buttress  I'll 


196  The  Hunter 

git  real  serious,  and  be  useful  to  my  country.     If 
you  don't  let  me,  I'll  do  it!" 

Uncle  Dick  hesitated.  He  was  beginning  a 
speech  about  Aunt  Louisa  when  he  suddenly  re- 
membered that  Louis  Buttress  would  return.  So 
he  left  the  problem  to  be  solved  when  the  hunter 
called  again. 

"The  man's  the  right  man!"  Uncle  Dick  kept 
saying  to  himself.  "I  feel  it's  a  problem  alto- 
gether.    And  the  man's  the  right  man." 

Buttress  called  again  in  the  evening,  and  found 
Uncle  Dick  sitting  on  the  porch,  reading  the  news- 
paper. 

This  time  there  was  very  little  said  by  either  of 
the  men. 

"Her  mind  isn't  full  grown, "  said  Richard  Sug- 
den.     "You  see  what  it  means,  Mr.  Buttress?' 

"I'm  best  one  to  be  with  her  while  it  grows,' 
said  Louis.     "I'm  good  at  tending  growth.' 

"You're  confident — she's  got  the  week — seven 
days  in  which  to  change  her  mind.  Perhaps  it 
will  be  Din  to-morrow." 


"And  Uncle  Dick  Worries"       197 

"There  ain't  any  one  in  U.  S.  A.  better  able  to 
know  her  own  mind,  and  keep  to  it,  than  Silvia 
Lake,"  said  Louis  Buttress. 

Sugden  folded  up  the  newspaper,  laid  it  on  an 
empty  chair  beside  him,  and  held  out  his  hand  to 
the  hunter. 

'You  shall  have  your  chance,"  he  said,  "you 
and  Silvia.     We'll  see  how  it  can  be  done." 

And  the  two  men  walked  away  together. 

And  that  evening  Silvia  Lake  sat  down  to  write 
to  Bill  Din,  but  she  never  got  farther  than  the  date. 

Tearing  up  the  paper,  she  said  to  herself,  "I'll 
write  on  the  wedding-day — that'll  be  best." 

So  she  put  it  off  once  again. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

SILVIA   ADVENTURES 

CHICAGO  was  rioting  in  her  spring  dress, 
the  parks  were  showing  every  hue  of  green, 
and  the  sun  was  bringing  the  blossoms  out  in  the 
suburbs. 

Mam'  Dulcie  called  out  in  glee:  "Sure  thing, 
honey,  there  ain't  been  a  sweeter  day  than  this  one 
in  all  the  year!" 

And  then,  putting  her  head  into  the  room  again, 
she  smiled  with  delight. 

Silvia  Lake  was  packing  a  suitcase  and  it  was 

ten   o'clock   on   a   Thursday   morning   in   April. 

Uncle  Dick  was  pacing  to  and  fro  downstairs. 

Aunt  Louisa  was  shopping.     Mam'  Dulcie,  whose 

whole  life  had  been  spent  in  the  Sugden  household, 

was  in  possession  of  a  secret,  which  enchanted  her 

and  it  compelled  her  to  talk  all  the  time. 

198 


Silvia  Adventures  199 

"Sure  thing,  Missy,  I  dunno  how  'twill  be  when 

it  all  comes  out,  but  you  done  all  right  to  take  along 

and  marry  the  best.     There's  some  folk  know  one 

thing,  and  some  another,  but  there's  only  two  folk 

know  when  to  marry — honey — dat  is  the  two  con- 

sarned — yourself  and  him.     My  ole  man  dun  run 

after  me,  sure  as  fate,  and  he  made  me  go  to  the 

church,  and  to  the  church  I  went,  and  married  him. 

Sure  as  I  live,  honey,  I  never  had  a  grain  of  trouble 

with  him,   since — 'ceptin'  for  a  way  he  has  of 

shuttin '  all  the  windows.     We  all  have  our  ways, 

Missy,  and  honest  to  goodness,  you  have  a  bit  more 

of  a  way  than  many  that  come  along,  but  he  looks 
a  wise  man,  wise  as  Solomon,  sure  as  I  live  I 
believe     it.       Dat's     whar     Providence    minds 

you!" 

Silvia,  having  packed  the  suitcase,  proceeded 
to  put  on  a  navy  blue  coat  and  hat.  She  had 
never  spoken  a  word  while  she  got  ready,  but  had 
continued  to  work  while  Mam'  Dulcie  chattered. 

Now  she  came  to  the  negro  woman  and  took  her 
hands  and  held  them. 


200  The  Hunter 

"Give  Aunt  Louisa  the  letter  when  I've  been 
gone  an  hour " 

"Sure,  Missy — 'twill  be  done!  I'll  throw  it  in 
her  way. " 

11  Give  it  her  at  one  o'clock. " 

"Not  before,  Missy — in  case  of  him  not  bein' 
thar,  or  somethin'  happenin'.  At  one  o'clock, 
honey,  your  auntie  shall  know  it!" 

"Dulcie!     O — I   feel — I   want   somethin' " 

"Sure,  honey,  'tis  natural.  God  bless  you, 
honey.  I  ain't  fine  white  folk  to  kiss  you  and  bless 
you,  but  you  ain't  got  a  mammy  and  ole  Dulcie 
sees  how  you've  raised  yourself.  Sure  like  a  HI' 
turkey  in  an  orchard,  comin'  and  goin'  as  it  pleased 
you,  the  consarn  of  no  one!  And  'tis  best  to  finish 
like  HI'  turkey,  makin'  a  dash  for  the  place  you 
want.  Honey,  I'll  kiss  you  for  dat  mammy  you 
never  remember.  You've  sure  raised  yourself  real 
well." 

Silvia  Lake's  head  rested  on  Mam'  Dulcie's 
shoulder  for  a  minute,  and  then,  having  kissed  the 
negro-woman,  she   said:     "Dulcie,  I    ain't  never 


Silvia  Adventures  201 

had  a  mother  that  loved  to  dress  me  up,  and  see 
me  real  smart.  I  want  her  some  thin'  fierce!  But 
I'm  the  proudest  woman  in  Chicago.  In  an  hour 
I'll  be  Mrs.  Louis  Buttress!  Say,  you  must  come 
and  stay  with  me,  when  we're  home  again,  and  got 
the  house  straight.  Now  I  must  be  off,  and  there's 
Uncle  Dick." 

Silvia  ran  downstairs  into  the  hall,  where  Uncle 
Dick  was  waiting  for  her. 

"Good-bye,  Mammy!"  cried  Silvia,  for  the 
last  time. 

"Good-bye,  honey!"  cried  the  old  negro,  lean- 
ing over  the  banister.  "You'll  be  back  to  lunch, 
I  reckon,  so  I'll  'spect  you!" 

"Uncle  Dick,"  said  Silvia,  when  they  got  into 
the  street.  "As  long  as  I  live  I'll  think  of  you  as  a 
Champion  Man.  You're  the  best  uncle  that  ever 
lived  and  you'll  never  regret  trustin'  me.  I'm  not 
a  kid.  I'm  a  real  grown  woman,  and  I  know  what's 
best  for  me,  and  no  one  else  in  this  world  knows 
any  thin'  about  it,  as  far  as  I  can  see.  Whatever 
is  the  use  of  college  for  me?     Louis  and  me  can 


202  The  Hunter 

study  together  on  the  long  winter  nights — and 
Aunt  Louisa — she  don't  know  what  to  do  with  me 
— it's  makin'  her  sick — I'm  sure  a  desperate 
woman  when  I'm  left  in  the  city!" 

To  all  this  Uncle  Dick  made  no  reply.  There 
was  no  more  thoughtful  man  in  all  Chicago,  that 
Thursday  in  April,  than  the  man  who  was  trusted 
with  Silvia's  plans. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

AUNT  LOUISA  AROUSED 

AUNT  LOUISA  was  in  the  dining-room,  taking 
off  her  hat.  Uncle  Dick  was  standing  by 
the  window,  with  a  book  in  his  hands.  He  was 
apparently  reading  it,  but  the  book  was  upside 
down. 

Aunt  Louisa  did  not  see  this,  but  she  was  cheer- 
fully folding  her  veil,  and  considering  the  question 
of  a  new  coat  for  Silvia.  Yet  she  noticed  Uncle 
Dick's  manner,  and  she  said  suddenly:  "You 
have  a  headache,  Dick?" 

"No — yes!     Perhaps    I    have,"    said    Sugden. 

"You  think  too  much!"  said  Aunt  Louisa. 

Uncle  Dick  looked  at  his  wife  but  said  nothing. 

"Oh,  there's  a  note  for  me!"  said  Mrs.  Sugden 

quickly.     "Silvia — has  she  gone  out?" 

203 


204  The  Hunter 

"  Dulcie  will  know, "  said  Uncle  Dick.  "  Dulcie 
was  with  her  this  morning. " 

As  Mrs.  Sugden  had  unfastened  the  envelope 
and  was  preparing  to  read  the  letter,  Uncle  Dick 
turned  over  five  pages  of  the  book  he  was  not  read- 
ing, and  kept  saying  to  himself:  "Now  for  it — 
now  for  it — now  for  it. " 

"Dick!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sugden.  "Silvia's 
run  away — run  away — to  be  married.  We  must 
stop  it — we  must  stop  them." 

Uncle  Dick  gazed  at  Aunt  Louisa,  but  neither 
moved  nor  spoke  a  word. 

"Dick!  Are  you  mad?  Do  you  hear  me? 
Read  that  note!     No,  ring  for  Dulcie!" 

And  without  waiting  for  him  to  do  it,  Mrs.  Sug- 
den went  out  of  the  dining-room.  Uncle  Dick  took 
up  the  letter  and  read  the  following  lines : — 

Dear  Aunt  Louisa, — This  is  sure  a  glad  day  for 
all  of  us.  I'm  by  this  time  Mrs.  Louis  Buttress  to 
whom  you  must  refer  if  you  want  to  know  anything 
about  Silvia  Lake.  We  are  going  to  Canada.  We 
are   taking  the  Millionaire's  express  to  New  York. 

Your  affectionate  niece, 

Silvia  Buttress. 


Aunt  Louisa  Aroused  205 

Uncle  Dick  bit  his  lips,  but  there  was  almost  a 
gleam  in  his  eye.  It  went  away  swiftly,  as  he 
heard  the  approach  of  Aunt  Louisa. 

"Dick,  what  are  you  going  to  do  in  this  matter? 
Silvia  has  gone.  She  took  a  suitcase.  I  can  get 
nothing  out  of  Dulcie  but  the  suitcase.  What  are 
you  going  to  do?" 

'Nothing,  Louisa.     Silvia  has  done  it." 

"Nonsense.  We  can  go  to  the  depot  for  that 
train — that  express!" 

"They'll  be  married." 

"Dick,  she  isn't  your  niece,  but  she's  my 
brother's  child.     I  cannot  be  cool. " 

Uncle  Dick  looked  at  his  watch:  "Go  to  the 
depot  and  see  the  man,"  he  said.  "There  are 
still  a  few  minutes. " 

"Come  with  me,  then." 

Uncle  Dick  consulted  his  watch,  and  said: 
"Then  we  must  go  at  once. " 

And  Aunt  Louisa  tremblingly  refastened  her 
veil,  saying  as  she  did  so:  "Exactly  like  Silves- 
ter— he  did  it  just  the  same  way — Oh,  I  remem- 


206  The  Hunter 

ber  how  poor  mother  worried  about  him! — And 
Silvia  to  repeat  it !  If  it  had  only  been  that  young 
man  who  won  the  pony  race  I  should  not  hesitate 
to  say  it  was  all  for  the  best.  But  no — some- 
body else — I  can't  understand  it.  Who  is  this 
Buttress?" 

Uncle  Dick  opened  the  door,  and  the  husband 
and  wife  made  haste  for  the  depot. 

Uncle  Dick  was  remembering  Silvia's  expres- 
sion, as  she  had  kissed  him  good-bye,  half  an 
hour  ago,  and  was  saying  to  himself:  "If  looks 
are  to  be  trusted,  it  is  all  for  the  best. " 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
"what  about  bill  din?" 

LOUIS,  married  to  Silvia,  had  never  been  so 
completely  astonished  with  what  his  father 
would  have  called  the  "happen-so"  of  life.  Silvia 
did  all  the  talking  as  they  walked  to  the  depot; 
but  he,  listening  to  her,  had  question  after  question 
to  ask  himself,  between  whiles,  whenever  he  had 
the  chance. 

"She  pins  her  faith  to  me,"  he  said;  "she  lives 
on  it.  She  throws  her  destiny  in  with  me,  as 
easily  as  I  would — as  I  would  rise  up  with  the  sun. 
What  brings  her  to  me?  I  love  her — so  do  others 
— she  trusts  something  deep  to  come  to  me  like 
this." 

And  then  he  would  say  to  Silvia:     "  Still  pleased 

with  life,  Mrs.  Buttress?" 

And  Silvia's  answer  would  be :     "Better  by  half, 

207 


208  The  Hunter 

than  it  has  ever  been  before.  I  am  now  your 
squaw.  Ain't  it  a  dandy  day  for  a  long  ride  on  the 
train?  Folks  must  never  guess  that  we're  just 
married.  We'll  make  them  think  we're  real  tired 
of  one  another. " 

And  Louis,  still  thinking  about  Ari-wa-kis  and 
Din  and  Spen  and  what  time  had  done  for  the 
hunter,  said  aloud:  "Then  do  lovers  git  tired  of 
one  another,  Silvia — Buttress?" 

"The  folks  who  marry  to  git  dollars  and  houses, 
and  the  folks  who  marry  to  git  the  best  of  someone 
else,  and  the  folks  who  marry,  cos  there  ain't 
any  thin'  else  doin' — they  git  real  tired  of  one 
another.     We  won't,   Louis!" 

"No,"  said  Louis. 

The  depot,  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  was 
a  place  of  sounds.  Louis  and  Silvia  were  about 
to  take  their  seats  on  the  New  York  train,  when 
something  reached  them,  even  though  a  man  with 
a  megaphone  was  shouting  the  train's  departure. 
It  was  Aunt  Louisa's  exclamation:  "There  she 
is,  Dick.     We've  got  them!" 


"What  about  Bill  Din?"         209 

Silvia  went  very  pale,  and  Louis  felt  her  grip 
his  arm,  with  all  her  might. 

"  Louis,  hold  on  to  your  wife ! "  she  said.  ' '  Aunt 
Louisa!" 

Louis  Buttress  held  Silvia's  arm  tightly. 

"Oh,  Louis!"  whispered  Silvia.  "Ain't  it 
splendid — I  love  an  adventure!" 

Aunt  Louisa,  followed  by  Uncle  Dick  came  up 
to  the  lovers. 

"I  have  just  received  a  letter  in  which  Silvia 
says  she  is  married — married — why,  she's  a  child. " 
She  is  my  wife, "  said  Louis. 
I'm  his  wife, "  said  Silvia. 

Buttress  took  Silvia  by  the  hand,  and  gave  her 
to  her  uncle. 

"I  want  a  word  with  you  alone,  Mrs.  Sugden, " 
he  said. 

Uncle  Dick  and  Silvia  drew  aside,  and  Louis 
Buttress  immediately  turned  to  Silvia's  aunt, 
whose  face  was  changing  colour  under  the  excite- 
ment of  the  moment. 


<< 


<<  T». 


a 


She  and  I — we  love  one  another.     She's  very 
14 


210  The  Hunter 

young  and  she  likes  a  game.  We  've  let  her  have 
her  game.  It's  pleased  her  to  run  away  like  this. 
Now  all  that  matters  to  you,  Mrs.  Sugden,  is  the 
man  she's  gone  with — me.     Do  you  trust  me?" 

Mrs.  Sugden  looked  into  Louis  Buttress's  face. 
It  was  intent.  His  blue  eyes  read  her,  as  though 
he  already  held  the  answer.  She  was  silent  a 
minute.     Then  she  said: 

"Yes,  Mr.  Buttress.  Well!  Good  luck  to 
you — it's  a  game — you'll  have  to  remember  those 
words .     Good-bye ! ' ' 

Silvia  and  Louis  now  went  aboard,  leaving  Uncle 
Dick  and  Aunt  Louisa,  staring  at  the  great  train. 
A  bell  was  ringing  all  the  time.  There  was  a  sound 
close  to  Aunt  Louisa  of  a  child  sobbing  and  crying. 
Misery  seemed  more  to  the  fore  than  joy.  A 
sense  of  something  uncomfortable  near  her,  made 
Mrs.  Sugden  wish  that  the  express  had  gone,  but 
there  was  still  a  minute  of  silent  waiting.  At 
length  the  train  went  roaring  out  of  the  depot,  and 
people  began  to  move  away. 

"Don't   trouble   about   it,"    said  Uncle   Dick. 


"What  about  Bill  Din?"         211 

"You  can't  do  a  bit  of  good — they  would  have 
each  other. " 

"I'm  not  troubling  about  anything,"  said  Aunt 
Louisa.     "I'm  just  depressed." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Uncle  Dick.  "We'll  have  to 
take  a  honeymoon  too. " 

But,  reaching  home,  they  were  told  by  a  maid 
that  while  they  had  been  away  there  had  been  a 
visitor,  who  had  said  that  he  would  not  be  able  to 
call  again. 

What  name?"  said  Mrs.  Sugden. 
Mr.  Din,"  replied  the  girl. 

Aunt  Louisa  sat  down  into  a  rocking-chair,  and 
closed  her  eyes.  Uncle  Dick  looked  for  his  book 
on  forest  lore. 


<< 


<< 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


BILL  S   BLOW 


IT  was  a  lovely  spring  evening  on  the  prairie,  and 
the  herds  of  ponies  were  scampering  madly 
about  in  the  scented  air. 

Bill  Din  had  returned  from  Chicago  on  the  same 
evening  of  Silvia's  wedding-day. 

It  was  time  for  shutting  barn-doors,  yet  they 
were  still  gaping.  Bill's  eye  scanned  the  whole  of 
it,  looking  for  the  figure  of  his  partner,  getting 
about  his  evening  chores,  but  Toad  Lorraine  had 
not  begun  a  single  evening  duty. 

' '  Gee ! ' '  said  Bill.  ' '  He  is  a  lazy  beggar.  If  I  go 
out  he  collapses." 

He  walked  into  the  kitchen  in  no  genial  mood, 
and  there  he  saw  Toad  Lorraine,  seated  at  the 
table,  an  ink-pot  before  him,  a  big  pen  in  his  hand 


212 


Bill's  Blow  213 

and  sheets  of  writing  paper  beside  him.  Toad's 
chin,  and  his  tousle  of  red  hair,  in  which  there  was 
no  parting,  was  all  that  Bill  could  see  of  his  part- 
ner's head. 

"My!"  said  Bill  Din. 

There  was  no  answer  from  Toad. 

' ' For  pity's  sake ! ' '  said  Bill.  "I'm  closin'  this 
ranch  to-morrow  morning." 

Toad  dropped  his  pen  and  looked  up. 

"Got  to  consult  me,"  he  said. 

He  rubbed  his  pen  on  his  coat  sleeve  and  put  it 
away.  Then  he  glanced  at  the  clock  and  coloured 
slightly. 

"Seven  o'clock  and  not  a  single  chore  done," 
said  Bill.  "The  cows  should  have  been  milked  at 
five.  You'd  never  have  milked  them  if  I  hadn't 
got  home.     Let's  get  out  and  do  the  work. ' 

"What  have  you  been  doing?'  said  Toad. 
"What  did  you  go  to  Chicago  for?  If  my  partner 
goes  on  errands  of  that  sort,  I  can  sure  write  letters 
once  in  a  while.  " 

"Once  in  a  while!"  said  Din.     "You've  posted 


214  The  Hunter 

a  letter  in  that  mail-box  'bout  every  day  since  you 
came  from  Chicago,  and  if  you  miss  writing  you're 
always  looking  for  letters,  wastin'  time  by  the 
hour.     It's  a  darned  foolish  life  you're  leadin'." 

"That's  my  business!"  said  Toad  haughtily. 
"I'm  goin'  to  the  mail-box  now,  before  I  milk,  so 
if  you've  letters  for  your  girl,  hand  'em  out  and 
let  them  go  along  of  mine. " 

Bill  threw  a  strap  across  the  room,  which  hit 
Toad's  legs.  Toad  returned  the  bit  of  leather  and 
put  a  stamp  on  his  letter. 

Bill's  lips  quivered  and  Toad  was  sorry  for  the 
fire  that  had  prompted  his  last  speech.  He  ran 
out  of  the  kitchen  with  the  letter. 

"What's  happened  to  Bill?"  he  said  to  himself. 
Reaching  the  mail-box,  and  putting  the  letter  in 
its  place,  Lorraine  lifted  the  flag.  He  had  scarcely 
done  so,  when  he  heard  a  familiar  voice,  and  look- 
ing across  the  fence  he  saw  Spen,  riding  a  chest- 
nut mare. 

"Where's  Bill  Din?"  inquired  the  young  man. 

"Home,"  said  Lorraine. 


Bill's  Blow  215 

"Guess  I'll  call,"  said  Spen.  "Open  that  gate, 
the  mare  don't  like  standin'. " 

"Guess  you'll  not  call,"  said  Toad.  "What's 
your  news?" 

"Buttress'  bin  married  to-day  to  Silvia  Lake!" 
said  Spen.  "Sheridan's  drunk  and  boastin'  he  did 
it  to  spite  Bill  Din — does  Din  know  of  it?" 

' '  'Course  he  does,  you  fool ! "  cried  Toad.  "We 
ain't  time  to  gossip  about  madmen.    Good-night ! ': 

Toad  turned  on  his  heel  and  made  for  the  ranch. 

He  was  in  a  great  rage,  and  could  scarcely 
conceal  it. 

"Bill  don't  know, "  he  said  to  himself.  "He'd 
be  worse  than  mad  if  he  knew ;  but  he  suspects  it ! 
Gee!  I'm  stunned.  Never  was  so  surprised  in 
all  my  life.  Buttress  to  do  this!  Spen's  wrong, 
maybe;  but  Spen  never  is  when  there's  news  in  the 
wind.  Darn  it ! "  His  steps  slackened  as  he  came 
into  the  yard. 

Bill  was  already  milking  one  of  the  cows. 

"Hurry  up!"  he  called.  "Do  you  want  me  to 
git  'em  all  milked?" 


216  The  Hunter 

Toad  never  spoke.  He  took  a  pail  and  a  stool, 
and  coaxed  a  black  and  white  cow  to  his  side. 
Meanwhile  he  ruminated  on  the  news. 

Bill  Din  was  whistling,  "In  the  Shade  of  the  Old 
Apple  Tree,"  and  in  the  dusk  Toad  could  see  his 
profile. 

"He  don't  know, "  muttered  Lorraine,  "and  me 

to  tell  him!     A  nice  job. that,  for  a  man's  partner. 

I  ain't  goin'  to  leave  'im  to  gulp  it  down  in  public 
though." 

Din  pushed  away  the  red  cow,  and  began  milk- 
ing an  uncertain  creature,  who  had  a  whisky  tail. 
Twice  she  whisked  off  his  hat,  and  once  she  gave 
him  a  kick.  Toad  suspected  that  the  sensitive 
cow  was  aware  of  temper  in  the  milker. 

Time  went  on,  and  soon  the  milking  was  done. 

The  two  men  came  up  against  each  other,  near  the 

red  barn-door. 

"Buttress  has  married, "  said  Toad. 

As  soon  as  he  got  it  out  he  wished  he  had  men- 
tioned Silvia's  name  instead;  but  Din  took  it  up 
in  a  second,  replying,  "Sure!  What  next?" 


Bill's  Blow  217 

"Silvia  Lake  too!"  said  Toad. 

He  heard  Din  gasp,  and  then  there  was  silence. 
Toad  felt  as  if  there  was  a  chasm  and  he  could  not 
bridge  it,  either  for  himself  or  his  friend. 

They  stood  at  the  open  door  of  the  red  barn,  in 
the  grey  of  a  dusky  evening.  To  Toad  it  was  an 
endless  time,  and  then  Din,  muttering  something 
impossible  to  understand,  was  gone  into  the 
stables. 

"Gee!"  said  Toad.  "I  sure  wish  Buttress  joy 
of  the  girl — I  hope  she'll  be  a  shrew  of  the  worst 
sort,  and  that  they'll  fight  like  cat  and  dog." 

There  was  nothing  left  for  Lorraine  to  do,  but 
to  go  back  to  the  house. 

The  men  never  locked  the  house  door,  so  Toad 
did  not  know  whether  Bill  came  back  or  not,  but  in 
the  morning  they  met  again  in  the  stables. 

Toad's  spirits  went  down  to  zero,  as  he  saw  his 
friend. 

"I'm  a'goin'  off  for  a  few  days, "  said  Bill. 

His  voice  was  hoarse  and  he  spoke  with  an 
effort   and  Lorraine  said,    "that's  all  right — you 


218  The  Hunter 

don't  need  to  come  back  until  Spennithorne  comes 
next  month.     Any  old  time'll  do  for  me." 

Bill  Din  went  into  the  house,  and  an  hour  later 
he  was  gone. 

Toad  rushed  off  to  town  to  get  the  news.  It  was 
true. 


CHAPTER  XXX 


"I'VE  DECEIVED   HIM" 


A  CLEARING  in  a  wood  in  spring  time,  a  swift 
American  spring  with  increasing  sunlight 
every  day,  and  two  people  pleasing  one  another  at 
every  turn,  and  a  log-cabin  well  placed,  with  a 
background  of  pines  and  a  foreground  of  maples 
and  oaks,  even  hickory — what  more  could  man  or 
woman  want? 

Louis  Buttress  often  asked  that  question.  His 
days  were  now  most  extraordinary.  Having  been 
alone  all  his  life,  he  had  Silvia  at  every  leisure  mo- 
ment; and  the  more  he  studied  her,  the  more  sur- 
prising was  her  nature. 

She  did  everything  she  could  to  help  her  hus- 
band. She  never  regretted  the  solitude  of  the  life. 
There  was  not  a  sign  of  childishness  in  any  of  her 

actions. 

219 


220  The  Hunter 

*'  She's  perfect, "  Louis  said  to  himself.  He  said 
it  when  he  went  off  at  early  dawn.  He  said  it 
while  he  was  hunting.  He  said  it  when  he  returned 
again.  He  said  it  when  the  rain  came  for  three 
days,  and  they  could  not  get  away  from  each  other. 
He  said  it  at  the  beginning  of  the  rainy  spell,  and 
re-echoed  it  when  those  days  had  passed  away. 
He  never  said  it  aloud.  There  was  no  need  of  it, 
he  thought. 

A  log-cabin  is  not  a  place  where  housework  is 
likely  to  take  up  all  the  time,  but  Silvia  soon  found 
other  occupations  and  was  never  idle.  The  books 
did  not  get  looked  at,  but  the  living  creatures  in 
the  woods  were  all  fascinating  and  Louis  and  Silvia 
loved  them. 

Not  far  away  from  the  cabin  there  were  some 
crab-apple  trees  on  a  grassy  mound.  Sometimes 
Louis,  returning  from  the  hunt,  would  find  Sihia 
sitting  there. 

The  grass  was  growing  long  and  vividly  green. 
The  trees  were  scented  with  their  pink  blossoms. 
Fluttering  rosy  leaves  dropped  in  the  still  air. 


"I've  Deceived  Him"  221 

This  break  or  glade  in  the  midst  of  the  wood, 
showed  the  beauties  of  the  deeper,  more  shadowy 
parts,  where  it  was  darker,  and  the  owls  hooted. 
Both  Louis  and  Silvia  enjoyed  the  birds  on  these 
quiet  spring  evenings.  They  would  sit  outside  the 
cabin,  listening  to  the  frogs  in  the  creek,  feeling 
the  cool  airs  of  night  coming  up  from  the  water, 
hearing  the  rustle  of  living  creatures  venturing  out 
in  the  dark.  There  were  several  varieties  of  owls, 
calling  in  their  different  ways,  and  making  their 
notes  clear  on  the  night  air. 

Sometimes  Louis  and  Silvia  sat  outside  the  cabin 
watching  evening,  as  it  melted  into  night.  The 
sky  might  be  studded  with  stars ;  it  might  be  swept 
by  the  moon ;  it  might  be  soft  and  misty,  with  some 
orange-hued  dusky  cloud,  where  the  sun  had  set, 
but  it  was  received  with  pleasure.  An  hour  was 
not  wasted  in  this  way. 

And  Silvia  forgot  all  about  Bill  Din. 

It  was  one  splendid  May  morning,  when  the 
blossoms  that  had  been  on  the  fruit  trees  were 
mostly  a  carpet  underfoot.     Louis  got  breakfast 


222  The  Hunter 

very  early.  It  was  more  than  corn  mush,  for 
Silvia  prepared  it. 

Six  o'clock  on  a  May  morning  in  the  woods  is  a 
fine  place  to  start  the  day,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Buttress  were  as  merry  as  could  be. 

"What  time  will  you  git  back?"  asked  Silvia. 

" Not  till  dark, "  said  Louis.     "Come  with  me. " 

11  No,  I  ain't  able  to.  I've  lots  to  do.  I'll  have 
supper  ready,  though.  Say,  ain't  we  lucky?  Not 
a  quarrel  since  we  married.  Ain't  it  'bout  time  we 
had  a  try?" 

Louis,  who  had  already  got  outside  the  cabin, 
came  in  to  say:  "You  make  one  up,  while  I'm 
gone,  try!" 

"What '11  you  do  when  you  come  back?"  asked 
Silvia. 

"See  what  you  can  do,"  said  Louis,  going  off. 

It  was  already  a  warm  day,  although  only  six 
o'clock.  Silvia,  watching  Louis  go,  saw  a  blue- 
bird fly  out  of  the  brake,  and  into  the  brush  again. 

And  then  she  came  into  the  house.  She  was 
making  a  cushion  cover,  and  pulled  it  out  of  the 


"I've  Deceived  Him"  223 

window  seat,  to  take  it  out  into  the  clearing,  and 
at  the  same  time  she  gathered  up  the  pieces  of 
patchwork  that  had  fallen  out  of  her  basket. 
Putting  them  away  again  she  came  across  an  old 
envelope, — Bill  Din's  writing. 

The  cushion  cover  and  the  bits  for  patching  fell 
on  the  floor,  and  Silvia  went  out  of  the  cabin,  for 
she  did  not  like  the  look  of  the  envelope.  And, 
running  out  quickly,  she  found  herself  held  by  a 
man. 

11  Bill ! "  she  screamed. 

"Sure!  It's  Bill  Din!  What  did  you  expect? 
Someone  else  instead  of  the  man  you're  promised 
to?" 

Silvia  stared  at  him  and  he  gazed  at  her. 

The  sun  was  pouring  down  upon  the  glade. 
Birds  were  twittering;  the  May  apple  was  in  blos- 
som, spreading  pale  green  leaves  over  the  grass. 
Spring  was  triumphant  everywhere. 

"Come  in,"  she  said. 

"You  was  mighty  slow  gittin'  it  out,  Silvia 
Lake!" 


224  The  Hunter 

"I'm  pleased  to  see  you,  Bill." 

"I'd  say  it  a  million  times,  Silvia,  'twould  make 
it  believable!" 

Silvia  went  into  the  kitchen  of  the  log-house. 
Bill  followed  her,  bending  his  head  in  the  doorway, 
and  then  looking  around  him  sharply.  There  were 
the  remains  of  breakfast  on  the  table,  and  he 
glanced  at  the  cups  and  plates,  and  again  at  Silvia. 
He  picked  up  the  envelope  which  lay  on  the  floor, 
near  the  window,  and  crushed  it  in  his  fingers. 
She  went  pale,  as  she  watched  him  throw  it  in  the 
fire.  She  stood  gazing  at  him,  her  lips  parted,  and 
her  hands  clasped  together. 

"Give  me  something  to  eat,"  he  said  at  last. 
"I've  been  fasting  two  days.  I'm  going  to  eat 
and  drink  here,  and  rest  awhile.  I'm  surely  right 
in  naming  you  as  Silvia  Lake?  If  I've  made  a 
mistake,  you  tell  me — It's  Silvia  Lake,  ain't  it?" 

Silvia  came  up  to  the  stove,  and  tried  to  move 
the  kettle  forward.  She  was  biting  her  lips,  and 
the  fingers  that  held  the  handle  were  not  firm. 
Bill  took  it  and  placed  it  securely. 


"I've  Deceived  Him"  225 

"Bill,"  she  said,  "ain't  you  heard?" 

"Heard  what?" 

"  'Bout  me?" 

"If  you've  news  for  me,  tell  me  what  it  is?" 

"I  was  married  to  Louis  Buttress — I  meant  to 
tell  you!" 

"Poor  Buttress!"  said  Bill  Din. 

Silvia  took  the  cups  from  the  table  and  placed 
a  fresh  one  for  Bill  Din.  She  came  close  to  him 
several  times,  when  she  went  to  get  the  dishes,  and 
once,  in  doing  so,  she  felt  something  heavy 
and  bulky  in  his  over-all  pocket.  The  shape  of 
it  was  plain  to  her  eye.  She  shrank  back  from 
him. 

"You  ain't  happy,  Silvia,"  he  said,  "same  as 
me." 

"Bill,"  she  said.  "I  done  wrong.  I  see  now 
how  I  done  very  wrong.  I  ask  you'  to  forgive  me 
if  you  can " 

"You  ask  too  much." 

"Then  what  will  you  do,  Bill?" 

"I'll  have  a  talk  with  you  first  over  our  break- 
is 


li 


11 


226  The  Hunter 

fast.     We'll  have  this  breakfast  together,  Silvia; 
and  then  we'll  see  what  we'll  do!" 

"Yes, "  said  Silvia. 

She  placed  some  more  food  on  the  table  and 
poured  coffee  into  a  cup. 
Sit  down,  Bill,"  she  said. 
You,"  he  said. 

Silvia  sat  down  opposite  him. 

"Now  we'll  talk,"  he  said.  "See,  you  ain't 
drinkin'  nor  eatin' — you  must  do  both.  We'll  drink 
to  Mr.  and  Mr.  Louis  Buttress!" 

"Don't,  Bill!" 

"Don't,  why?" 

"Don't  drink  to  Louis!" 

"Why?" 

"You're  mad  with  him.  'Tain't  right.  Drink 
tome!" 

"I'm  mad  with  you!" 

"I  know.     Drink  to  me.     Louis  ain't  in  it.' 

"What?" 

"Louis  don't  know  nothin'." 

Bill  put  his  cup  down. 


"I've  Deceived  Him"  227 

"Don't  know  you  was  promised  to  me? — that's 
nothin'.  It  don't  make  any  matter — his  day  is 
over.     He's  had  it  and  it's  over. " 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do,  Bill?" 

"Take  you  from  him. " 

"I'll  never  leave  him. " 

"I'll  kill  you— that's  what  I  meant!" 

"Then  do  it." 

Bill  was  silent. 

He  sat  gazing  at  Silvia.  She  got  up  from  the 
table  and  went  to  the  door. 

"What  are  you  thinkin'  of?"  Bill  asked  her. 

"I  wish  I'd  never  been  born." 

"You  ain't  the  first  that's  wished  it — and  you 
ain't  a'goin'  to  be  the  last!" 

"  Bill,  only  one  thing  I  ask  of  you,  and  you  may 
kill  me." 

"What '11  you  ask  of  me,  Silvia?  What  do  you 
want?"  He  got  up  from  the  table  and  came  to 
the  door. 

"You  did  love  me  once,  Bill,  though  it's  all 
crumbled  to  pieces.     But  you  did,  once.     For  the 


228  The  Hunter 

sake  of  every  thin'  that's  gone,  I  beg  of  you,  Bill, 

to  promise  me  one  thing " 

"What's  the  one  thing,  then?" 

"Keep  it  to  ourselves.     And  now — kill  me!" 

"Never  let  Buttress  know?     What's  the  good  of 

disguisin'  the  truth?     Ain't  it  better  for  Buttress 

to  know  he's  got  a  wife  that  deceives  him,  than  to 

think  she's  what  she  ain't?    I  ain't  a'goin'  to  help 

you  to  deceive  another   man — one's  enough — no, 

I  ain't  a'goin'  to  kill  you,  neither — it's  Buttress 

I'll  see — 'tain't  any  use  dealin'   with  you — I'm 

a'goin'  for  Buttress — after  all,  it  ain't  nothin'  to  do 

with  you — it's  Buttress  and  me!" 

"Bill!     Bill!     Comeback!" 

"It's  no  use  a'callin'  me.     It's  too  late." 

"Bill,  do  you  remember  nothin'  I  ever  done  for 

you? — Do   you   remember  what    I  done  for  you 

when  you  was  a  kid?     Do  you  remember  I  forgive 

you   for    every  thin'    you    did    wrong   when  you 

was  a  boy,  'cos  you  couldn't  help  yourself  when 

it  was  mischief.     I   helped   you   every   time!     I 

screened  you  in  all  your  troubles!     I  had  pity  for 


"I've  Deceived  Him"  229 

you  'cos  you  couldn't  keep  out  of  it,  and  I  took 
you  for  a  friend !  And  now  you  ain't  a  bit  of  pity 
for  me,  'cos  I  was  afraid — and  afraid  of  you — — " 

"And  afraid  of  Buttress — of  the  man  you've 
married ! ' 

'I've  gone  and  deceived  him,  and  I  daren't  see 
his  face  when  he  sees  what  I  am — and  you've 
found  it  out,  Bill,  and  you've  no  pity  and  I  don't 
think  I  can  bear  my  life  any  longer — Bill,  don't 
go  yet!  What  are  you  goin'  to  do  'bout  Louis? 
Come  back !     Come  back ! ' ' 

"It's  all  Buttress,  from  beginning  to  end.  Let 
it  be  Buttress,  then!" 

Bill  Din  strode  to  the  door,  and  from  there  he 
stood  gazing  at  her. 

"Come  back!  Come  back  and  listen  to  me! 
Louis'  nothin'  to  do  with  it. " 

"Sure  thing,  you'll  learn  what  you  did  for  me, 
while  you're  feelin'  for  Buttress!  Buttress  is 
what  you're  thinkin'  of!  'Tain't  any  thin'  else  in 
this  world! — you'll  get  Buttress  now,  but  you'll 
not  see  me  again!     You  ain't  broken  my  heart — 


230  The  Hunter 

that's  a  cinch!  You've  turned  it  to  steel.  But- 
tress shall  see  me,  and  you  can  call  me  forever — 
T  ain't  a'comin'  back  this  way!" 

Bill  Din  ran  out  of  the  log-house  and  Silvia  ran 
also.     She  could  not  keep  up  with  him. 

' '  Come  back ! "  she  called.     ' '  Come  back ! ' ' 

"Never!"  said  Bill  Din. 

The  sun  streamed  down  upon  the  unsheltered 
clearing,  so  that  the  grasshoppers  and  katy-dids 
made  the  air  alive  with  their  vivid  joy.  Bob 
White  was  too  tired  to  call.  The  frogs  were 
singing  from  the  creek.  Silvia  listened  to  Bill 
Din's  receding  footfall. 

It  died  away  too  soon. 

She  walked  slowly  back  to  the  cabin. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
"day  no  good!" 

MEANWHILE  Louis  Buttress,  having  gone 
due  east,  came  to  a  place  where  there  was 
a  large  pond.  Rushes  bordered  the  water's  edge, 
and  the  music  in  them  was  sweet  and  low.  There 
was  a  wood  of  birch  trees  beyond.  The  barks 
were  white,  and  gleamed  in  the  sunlight.  There 
was  a  scent  of  pines.  Weeds  were  flowering 
luxuriantly  and  the  pollen  spreading  at  a  touch. 
There  were  faint  flickings  of  cloud,  more  like  fluff, 
floating  lightly  in  the  blue  heavens. 

Louis  took  stock  of  the  whole  scene.  There  was 
a  deep  blue  mound,  very  far  away,  in  a  distant 
peep  given  by  a  break  in  the  woods.  Hills  in  the 
distance,  blue  with  the  effect  of  space,  were  almost 
like   a   dream.     A   thousand   thoughts   arose   in 

Louis's  mind,  surging  up  and  up  from  his  heart. 

231 


2$2  The  Hunter 

There  was  a  stream  flowing  into  the  wood,  and 
some  Indians  were  encamped  on  the  banks  of  it, 
amongst  the  willow  trees — a  most  desirable  spot 
for  pausing.  Louis  knew  them  quite  well,  but  to- 
day they  did  not  let  him  pass  by.  The  Indian, 
leaving  his  squaw  sitting  by  the  water  edge,  came 
out  to  meet  the  hunter,  and  having  got  within 
speaking  distance,  stopped. 

"What  news?"  asked  Louis. 

"No  news!"  said  the  Indian.  "Not  much 
doing." 

Buttress  shook  his  head. 

"Day  good — "  he  said. 

"Not  good  day, "  repeated  the  man. 

Louis  drew  a  little  nearer,  and  as  the  sun  was 
shining  into  the  Indian's  eyes,  he  saw  how  thought 
was  leaping  in  the  sombre  depths  of  sight. 

What  was  the  scheme? 

Buttress  handed  over  his  gun  to  his  friend.  It 
was  certainly  interesting.  Having  come  from 
Lincolnshire  in  England  it  was  differently  made 
than  other  guns. 


"Day  No  Good!"  233 

The  Indian  became  engrossed  with  it. 

Louis  gazed  about  him. 

So  two  or  three  minutes  passed,  and  then  the 
Indian  returned  the  gun,  saying:  "Hunter  good 
shot — him  better  go  home — nothing  doing!" 

And  at  the  very  moment  that  this  was  said, 
Louis  saw  Bill  Din  standing  a  few  yards  away  from 
him. 

"Bill!"  said  Louis. 

The  Indian  exclaimed.  "Him  find  hunter — 
him  hunt  too — hunter  watch — watch  out!' 

"Why  this  man  is  a  neighbour.  Sure  thing,  he's 
a  friend!"  said  Louis. 

The  Indian  remained  standing  and  gazing  at 
Bill  Din;  and  Bill  Din,  never  moving,  never  speak- 
ing, never  smiling,  remained  looking  at  Louis 
Buttress. 

"Blue-grass  go  home — "  said    Louis,  suddenly. 

"Him  stay  by  hunter. " 

"Yes,"  said  Louis,  ''this  man  and  I  must  talk. 
We're  neighbours." 

The  Indian  moved  slowly  away,  walking  very 


234  The  Hunter 

straight  in  the  direction  of  the  stream.  Once  he 
looked  back  and  called  out  something  or  another, 
but  his  words  passed  unheeded  by  both  the  men. 
When  he  was  almost  out  of  sight,  Louis  spoke  up: 
"What's  the  matter,  Bill  Din?"  was  all  he  said  to 
the  pony  boy. 

Bill  moved  nearer  again,  until  there  was  only  a 
yard  between  them. 

"I'm  done,  clean  done  out  of  all — emptied, 
cheated  out  of  everythin'.  You,  Louis  Buttress, 
ain't  left  me  one  breath  o'  life  worth  living !': 

Buttress  listened.  He  pondered.  He  grew 
dark-looking.  Then  he  ran  forward,  and  seized 
the  pony  boy  by  the  arm,  as  he  cried:  "Life's 
done  it.  Take  it  like  any  o'  the  neighbours  would 
have  done — it's  life " 

"To  take  what  ain't  yours?  To  run  off  with  one 
promised  to  your  friend — friend? " 

1 '  Say  that  again,  Bill  Din !  Say  it  slow,  say  it  on 
that  life  you've  loved  so  much. " 

"Silvia  Lake  was  promised  to  me,  Louis  But- 
tress." 


"Day  No  Good!"  235 

"Here's  me  gun!"  said  Louis.  "'Twas  m' 
father's.  Me  poor  ole  father's — a  good  man  was 
me  father — kill  me  with  me  father's  gun,  and  see 
what  good  comes  out  o'  killing." 

"Keep  your  ole  gun.  I'll  not  kill  you.  Did 
you  know  she  was  promised  to  me?  Did  you? 
Did  you  not  know?  Ain't  she  tol'  you  all  she 
done?" 

Buttress  now  fell  back,  so  that  even  the  far- 
distant  Indian,  watching  under  cover,  saw  some- 
thing was  happening. 

Din  continued:  "You're  some  surprised,  Louis, 
but  it  don't  matter — this  is  life — nothin'  to  it.  I 
got  your  letter.  You  ain't  gone  very  far — it  don't 
need  a  fox  to  find  you  out!" 

"Bill, "  said  Louis,  "it  don't  matter  a  cent  what 
you  say,  it  matters  what  you  are.  If  I'm  treacher- 
ous, if  I  don't  care  a  hatchet  about  me  word — and 
your  word — and  the  word  of  any — wal' — take  it  as 
you  like — I  never  want  to  see  you  again.  Neither 
you  nor  any  man!" 

"I  don't  blame  you!"  said  Bill  Din. 


236  The  Hunter 

The  pony  boy  walked  swiftly  away  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  birch  trees,  and  Louis  Buttress,  turning 
slowly  round  went  off  towards  the  place  from  which 
he  had  come — the  oak  forest.  He  held  his  gun 
in  a  curious  position,  almost  as  if  he  had  never 
handled  one  in  his  life,  and  his  steps  dragged,  as 
though  he  were  paralysed  with  the  effort. 

And  in  the  far  distance  the  Indian  watched  him 
closely,  with  eyes  that  saw  every  movement. 

"Day  no  good!"  said  Blue-grass,  in  a  monoto- 
nous voice. 

The  squaw  listened,  and  said  nothing. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 


"love  trusts'' 


IT  was  dusk  when  Louis  returned,  and  Silvia  did 
not  go  out  to  meet  him. 

She  was  crocheting,  sitting  on  the  wooden  door- 
step. He  came  slowly,  with  an  indifferent,  listless 
movement,  which  even  the  shadows  of  evening 
could  not  disguise.  He  stopped  short  and  looked 
at  her  for  a  moment. 

11  Take  my  gun, "  he  said. 

Silvia  put  down  the  crochet  work,  and  rose  to  her 
feet.  She  looked  into  Louis's  eyes,  and  taking  the 
gun  from  him,  she  went  into  the  house. 

Louis  followed  her,  and  sat  down  near  the  stove. 

Silvia  lit  the  lamp,  putting  it  on  the  table.     She 

looked  at  Louis  after  she  had  done  it. 

The  light  showed  the  man's  face,  and  his  blue 

237 


238  The  Hunter 

eyes   were   strange   looking.     His   hair   was   dis- 
hevelled.    Silvia  came  to  the  stove. 

"You've  been  too  far,  Louis, "  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice. 


it  T»1 


Been  too  far,"  said  Louis,  "that's  right! 
I'll  get  your  supper,"  said  Silvia  quickly. 

Buttress  took  up  the  crochet  work,  and  began  to 
unravel  it. 

Silvia  got  the  supper  ready  and  put  coffee  on  the 
table.     Louis  continued  to  unravel  the  work. 

Silvia  moved  away  from  him  and  went  to  the 
door.  Night  had  descended,  the  sky  was  brilliant 
with  stars.     The  dog  was  barking. 

She  stared  out  into  the  darkness.  She  began  to 
sob,  but  stopped  herself,  looking  fearfully  towards 
the  kitchen.  She  came  into  the  room  again  and 
stood  in  front  of  her  husband. 

"The  wood-box  is  empty, "  she  said. 

Buttress  tried  to  put  the  fancy  work  on  the 
table,  but  the  cotton  entangled  his  fingers,  and 
Silvia  extricated  them  from  the  meshes. 

"Empty  as  the  shells  near  a  squirrel's  nest," 


"Love  Trusts"  239 

he  said,  but  he  never  stirred  from  his  seat  by  the 
stove. 

Silvia  left  him  again,  and  went  to  the  door. 
And  she  came  out  into  the  clearing,  wringing  her 
hands,  and  saying:  "I've  done  for  his  happiness — 
this  man's  too  big  for  me. " 

There  was  a  great  rustling  among  the  trees  and 
the  creepers.  Silvia  came  back  to  the  kitchen.  He 
was  sitting  in  exactly  the  same  position  as  she  had 
left  him. 

His  forehead  was  furrowed. 

She  put  some  wood  on  the  stove,  and  there  was 
a  roaring  and  crackling,  as  it  splintered  up  in  the 
heat.  The  dog,  hearing  it,  came  into  the  house, 
wagging  his  tail,  and  walking  around  Buttress. 
Silvia  came  too. 

"What  have  I  done?  Tell  me  of  it!  Louis, 
name  it!" 

He  turned  his  head  slowly,  until  he  was  looking 
at  her,  and  his  eyes  were  wide  open:  "What  about 
Bill  Din?" 

Silvia's  eyes  went  roving  here  and  there,  all  over 


240  The  Hunter 

the  big  kitchen,  but  they  eventually  came  back 
to  her  husband.  Her  lips  moved,  but  no  words 
formed  themselves.  The  clock  was  ticking,  and 
the  wood  occasionally  crackled  in  the  stove,  while 
the  outdoor  sounds  came  in  more  faintly. 

"Speak,  Louis,"  she  cried  at  last.  "Speak,  or 
I'll  die!  Tell  me  what  I  am  and  say  you  love  me 
no  more!" 

"How  much  did  you  trust  me  when  you  gave 
yourself  to  me?"  said  Buttress.  And  he  got  up 
and  went  out  into  the  clearing. 

Silvia  clung  to  the  table,  for  she  was  unable  to 
keep  her  feet  for  a  few  minutes. 

Louis  was  outside,  talking  to  the  dog. 

She  went  into  the  bedroom.  The  window  of 
this  room  looked  out  upon  the  oak  trees.  Some 
small  trees  even  tapped  the  glass  panes.  The 
moon  was  rising.  She  sat  down  on  the  window 
seat  and  after  a  while  she  fell  asleep. 

The  cocks  crowed  at  three  o'clock,  then  stopped 
as  if  they  had  made  a  mistake,  and  did  it  again, 
with  more  life,  at  five. 


"Love  Trusts''  241 

The  dawn  was  beautiful.  There  were  some 
bright  clouds,  where  the  day  was  coming,  and  then, 
very  early,  the  sun  plunged  upon  the  world.  The 
wood  awoke  to  another  morning,  and  the  sounds 
became  manifold — the  birds  using  a  medley  of 
notes,  and  growing  more  vehement  in  the  warmth 
of  the  hour.  Silvia,  stiff  with  sitting  in  the  win- 
dow, came  into  the  kitchen. 

Buttress  was  outside  the  door,  busy  with  some 
tools,  and  the  dog  was  with  him. 

Silvia  clenched  her  hands,  as  she  saw  it,  and 
when  the  dog  came  in  for  some  breakfast,  she 
pushed  him  from  her,  and  sent  him  whining  out-of- 
doors. 

"What's  that  for?"  called  Louis. 
For  hate!"  cried  Silvia. 

Come  here,"  said  Louis  to  the  dog,  and  he 
began  to  fondle  it. 

Silvia  stood  a  moment  motionless.  Then,  put- 
ting her  fingers  in  her  ears,  she  screamed. 

Buttress  threw  away  the  tools.     He  came  into 

the  kitchen  and  watched  her. 
16 


<  < 


«<  , 


242  The  Hunter 

She  had  thrown  down  the  knife  she  had  been 
using.     She  was  pale  as  death. 

He  came  up  to  her,  and  took  hold  of  both  of  her 
hands. 

"Bill  should  have  killed  me, "  she  said. 

Buttress  still  held  her  hands. 

"And  not  left  me  to  this " 

"Left  you  to  what,  Silvia?  Think,  think  what 
you've  done!" 

"Anyhow,  it's  done!"  said  Silvia.  "My  life's 
been  nothin'  but  a  lot  of  mistakes  from  beginning 
to  end.     I  can't  help  it.     It  ain't  any  use!" 

"Whose  blame  is  it?     Reason  it  out!" 

"Reason  ain't  everythin' — brains  ain't  the  limit 
o'  things !  It's  done,  while  I've  been  finding  things 
out — "  Silvia  stopped  suddenly,  and  looked  at 
the  wooden  ceiling. 

"Couldn't  have  helped  it!"  reflected  Buttress. 
"Sure  thing,  you've  something  to  awake  to!" 

"You  don't  love  me.  For  pity's  sake,  tell  me!" 
cried  Silvia. 

"You  ain't  trusted  me,  "  said  Buttress.     "After 


"Love  Trusts"  243 

all  them  beautiful  days  spent  together,  it's  meant 
that  Bill  Din  was  in  your  thoughts " 

"Louis,  you  don'  know  nothin' — neither  you  nor 
Bill!" 

"Bill  Din  was  the  man  you  was  thinkin'  of — not 
me!  You  held  it  back  from  me!  Bill  knew  more 
about  you  than  me. " 

"Every thin'  goes  against  me,"  said  Silvia. 
"When  I  seen  you  I'd  been  trying  the  road  of  life 
to  find  a  way — it  was  like  feeling  out  in  the  dark — 
till  I  seen  you — and  after  I  had  known  you,  Louis, 
I  said  to  myself:  'There's  my  road!'  That's  what 
I  thought,  no  more!" 

"And  before  you  seen  me,  what  about  Bill  and 
the  road!" 

Silvia  pulled  her  hands  from  Louis's  grasp. 

"Silvia!"  he  persisted.  "Why  not  a'  told  me? 
Love  trusts!"  continued  Buttress. 

Silvia  shuddered. 
Love  trusts!"  he  repeated. 
I  must  tell  you  every  thin',"  said  Silvia,  "now 
when  it's  too  late.     I  was  afraid  if  I  spoke  about 


<< 


a 


244  The  Hunter 

Bill,  you'd  go  away  forever.  Louis,  I  was  a'sayin'" 
to  myself:  'There's  my  happiness!'  and  I  said  to 
myself— 'He'll  think  of  Bill  Din— he'll  maybe 
think  more  of  a  man  that's  neighboured  him  than 
a  bit  of  a  girl  like  me.'  Louis,  that's  how  I  thought 
it  out.  I  never  thought  of  Bill,  I  was  a'thinkin' : 
'This  is  the  man  for  me.'  I  was  a'sayin'  to  myself : 
'  Here  he  is — '     Do  you  believe  me,  Louis  ? " 

"But  Bill— Bill  didn't  frighten  you.  'Twas  me 
that  frightened  you — me ! ' 

"I  was  frightened  I'd  lose  you. " 

"Bill  was  your  chum. " 

"Nothin'  but  a  chum.  We  were  in  the  same 
grade." 

"Bill  understands  you!" 

"No,  he  don't,  Louis." 

Buttress  turned  away  from  her  and  went  out  of 
the  house. 

Silvia  sank  down  upon  the  floor,  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

The  dog,  forgetful  of  unkindness,  came  and 
licked  the  ringers  pressed  close  against  the  face. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 


" TRUST  ME" 


THE  coming  of  evening  brought  Louis  Buttress 
into  the  clearing.  It  was  almost  dark  in  the 
wood,  but  here,  near  the  log-house,  there  still 
lingered  some  of  the  afternoon's  light. 

The  birds  were  chorusing  loudly. 

He  saw  an  owl  peering  at  him  from  an  oak 
bough,  and  as  he  looked  the  bird  drooped,  heaped 
itself  together,  and  gave  a  clumsy  lurch.  But- 
tress thought  it  was  about  to  tumble,  but  it  flew 
heavily  over  his  head,  as  he  went  towards  the 
house,  calling  in  its  odd  way. 

The  cabin  door  was  partly  open. 

Louis  entered  the  kitchen  and  found  it  very 

dark,  for  the  windows  gave  only  a  broken  light. 

The  dog  greeted  him  but  Silvia  was  nowhere  to 

be  seen. 

245 


246  The  Hunter 

He  went  into  the  bedroom. 

She  was  not  there. 

Buttress  lit  a  lamp,  and  carried  it  everywhere, 
but  he  could  find  nothing  to  help  him. 

"What  has  she  done?"  he  said. 

The  dog  almost  spoke  in  answer  to  this  inward 
thought  from  Louis.  He  whined  in  a  knowing 
way,  and  cocked  one  ear. 

The  fire  was  out  in  the  stove.  The  ashes  were 
white  and  cold.  Buttress  looked  in  the  wood-box, 
and  saw  a  letter  lying  there. 

He  got  hold  of  it,  and  walked  to  the  window,  to 
read  it  by  the  last  bit  of  daylight. 

f  ! 

Dear  Louis  : 

I  want  you  to  remember  that  I  was  afraid  of  losing 
you,  'tis  all  I  can  say  for  myself.  I've  played  the 
game  wrong  and  I'm  surely  beaten.  I  tell  you,  Louis, 
we  don't  know  nothing  that  we  ought  to  know  when 
we  begin  to  play  at  life  and  'tis  more  a  bit  of  good  luck 
that  pulls  us  through,  than  our  management,  and  I 
don't  blame  the  unlucky  ones.  I  don't  blame  any  one 
but  the  country  for  leaving  everything  important  to 
go  to  pieces ! 

You  ain't  a  bit  of  knowledge  of  me,  and  I  don't 
blame  you ;  but  you're  kinder  to  your  dog  than  to  me, 


" Trust  Me"  247 

'cos  you  know  his  ways.     I'm  leaving  you  for  a  while, 
'tis  far  better  considering  what  I  done. 

You  try  and  think  me  out  and  it  will  may  be  help 
some,  in  explaining  lots  of  riddles.  I've  had  reason  to 
think  about  men,  they've  caused  me  such  difficulties. 
But  I'll  own  up,  Louis,  that  you  never  caused  me  a 
minute  of  anything  but  joy  till  this  of  Bill  Din  come 
out.  If  I'd  only  let  it  out  at  the  proper  time  but  I 
never  do  things  when  I  should  do,  they  come  to  me 
afterwards.  I  know  now  that  there's  nothing  to  be 
afraid  of  in  you!  Alas,  I  know  so  late!  Now,  Louis, 
I'll  be  real  sensible  and  go  to  Ari-wa-kis,  and  study 
my  conduct,  and  be  ready  to  see  you — should  you 
care  to  look  me  up — in  six  months'  time,  but  not 
before,  for  any  reason  excepting  a  life  or  death  matter — 
which  may  God  preserve  you  from!  And,  Louis, 
trust  me  as  you  did  before,  it's  wanted  more  than  ever. 

Silvia. 

P.S.  What's  the  use  of  studying  dead  languages 
and  ancient  history?  You  said  it  yourself  in  the 
desert. 

N.B.  And  natural  history  should  begin  with 
ourselves. 

Louis,  having  read  the  letter,  put  it  in  his  pocket 
He  took  his  gun,  called  the  dog,  and  came  out  of 
the  log-house. 

He  shut  the  door  and  locked  it,  and  went  off 
towards  the  oak  forest. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 


BILL  AND  TOAD  PART 


BILL  DIN  came  into  the  yard  one  Friday  even- 
ing.    He  went  into  the  stables. 

Toad  Lorraine  was  packing  a  suitcase,  and 
heard  him. 

"Gee!"  was  his  remark,  "there's  Bill!" 

The  chores  were  all  done,  and  it  was  not  seven 
o'clock.  Everything  was  in  order,  yet  the  colour 
flooded  Toad's  face,  and  he  found  it  difficult  to 
finish  packing  the  suitcase. 

He  looked  at  the  kitchen  door.  He  could  hear 
Bill  coming  towards  the  house. 

Toad  lit  the  lamp,  and  put  it  on  the  table.    He 

sat  down  near  the  stove  and  unrolled  a  newspaper. 

Bill  opened  the  door  and  stood  looking  at  him. 

Toad  read  the  newspaper. 

248 


Bill  and  Toad  Part  249 

Bill  Din  came  in  and  walked  up  to  the  table. 
He  lowered  the  wick  of  the  lamp. 

"Put  it  out!"  said  Toad  meaningly. 

Bill  did  so. 

He  stumbled  over  the  suitcase,  and  Toad 
laughed  sarcastically. 

"What's  this  blamed  thing?"  said  Bill. 

"Only  waitin'  for  you  to  git  back,  and 
I'm  runnin'  off  for  a  day  or  two,"  Toad  re- 
plied. 

"Only  waitin'  for  you  and  me  to  break  our 
necks.  Light  the  lamp  and  let's  see  what  you're 
a'doin'.  Gee,  what's  this?  A  pair  of  shoes!  A 
hair  brush!" 

Toad  Lorraine  seized  the  match-box  and  struck 
a  match.  He  purposely  allowed  it  to  go  out  and 
began  with  another  one.  He  found  it  so  difficult 
to  tell  Bill  Din. 

'I'm  a'goin'  away  for  a  week — I'm  about  to  be 
married " 

1 ' Git  the  lamp  lit!"  ordered  Bill  Din. 

Toad  Lorraine  did  so. 


250  The  Hunter 

Having  burnt  his  fingers,  and  muttered,  "Gee- 
whizz!"  he  looked  at  his  partner. 

"Have  you  any  news?"  inquired  Bill.  "I 
mean — real  business.  " 

"Bill  Din,  I  ain't  a'goin'  to  be  downed  by  this 
kind  of  talk !  We  ain't  in  a  mood  to  bear  much — 
neither  of  us — we'll  be  in  deep  waters  if  we  ain't 
careful!  I'm  about  to  marry,  and  question  is,  am 
I  to  be  partner  with  you,  staying  along  here  at  the 
old  place,  same  as  we've  done  since  we  was  young- 
sters, or  am  I — or  do  you  wish — to  walk  off  with 
half  shares,  and  set  up  alone?  That's  the  ques- 
tion !  Far  as  I  can  see — just  lookin'  at  it,  as  things 
stand  between  us! — any  other  question  is  darned 
interference!" 

"Name  the  bride!"  said  Bill  Din. 

"Miss  Martin,"  said  Toad  Lorraine  proudly. 

Bill  Din  smiled. 

"  'Course, "  he  said,  "I  can  bring  her  up  to  my 
mind  now  you  mention  her !  Let's  see — Miss  Mar- 
tin was  at  the  races — allow  me  to  remark,  Toad 
Lorraine,  you're  the  first  man  she's  ever  met!' 


Bill  and  Toad  Part  251 

" That's  more'n  can  be  said  for  the  most  of 
them!"  said  Toad,  fiercely. 

A  queer  expression  came  over  Din's  face.  It 
was  as  if,  quite  suddenly,  he  grew  tired  of  the 
argument.  He  sat  down  on  the  nearest  chair, 
and  Toad  watched  him  furtively. 

Bill  Din  was  asleep  in  five  minutes. 

A  look  of  compunction  came  over  Toad's  face, 
as  he  studied  the  figure  of  his  partner. 

"It's  a  darned  mix-up!"  he  said.  "I  wish  the 
pair  of  us  had  kept  clear  of  Chicago.  What's  the 
poor  fellow  to  do  without  me?  Yet  I  can  see  'tis 
no  use — he  don't  like  women  no  more,  and  who 
can  blame  him?  I'll  make  a  bee-line  while  he's 
sleepin'.'  Toad  got  up,  and  walked  towards  the 
door,  but  recollecting  the  suitcase,  he  came  back 
again.  "It  ain't  a  bit  of  use — now  or  never — 
Bill  and  I  must  start  afresh,  or  cry  quits!" 

Lorraine  watched  Din,  as  he  dozed  and  dreamed 
in  the  hard-backed  chair;  until,  as  suddenly  as 
he  had  gone  to  sleep,  the  pony  boy  grew  wide 
awake.     He  blinked  his  eyes,   and  then  looked 


252  The  Hunter 

straight  at  Toad.      Lorraine  felt  his  whole  heart 
rise  up  to  welcome  his  friend. 

"Toad,"  said  Bill. 

"Sure,"  said  Lorraine,  heartily,  "whatever 
you've  got  to  say,  Bill,  say  it.     I  ain't  partickler." 

"I  pity  you!"  said  Bill. 

"You  can  surely  do  as  you  please, "  said  Toad, 
"it's  a  free  country."  But  for  all  his  words,  he 
looked  unhappy. 

"Miss  Martin's  parents  are  small  millionaires, ' 
continued  Bill. 

"So  they  are!"  said  Toad.  "No  one  knows 
that  fac'  better'n  me. " 

"  'Course  you'll  have  talked  it  over  with  Poppa 
and  Momma?"  There  was  a  heavy  silence;  to 
Toad  it  weighed  ponderously. 

"No,"  he  said.  "Fac'  is,  Miss  Martin  don't 
like  things  done  all  in  order.  She  fancies  adven- 
ture— she  ain't  had  enough — in  fac'  she's  had 
none — I  sure  sympathize.  I'm  goin'  to  see  she 
has  plenty.  We're  goin'  to  do  the  marriage  right 
to  her  fancy.     That's  why  we're  runnin'  away — 


Bill  and  Toad  Part  253 

we're  going  to  Florida — a  place  she  knows  of — 
and  then,  she — what  are  you  staring  at?" 

"If  you  marry  Miss  Martin  as  a  runaway,  we'll 
quit  it!"  said  Bill  Din. 

Toad  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Gee-whizz!  Bill  Din,  IVe  put  up  with  you 
till  I'm  sick!  We'll  close  this  ranch.  We'll  end 
it  to-night!" 

"Where  shall  we  begin?"  said  Bill.  "In  the 
stables?" 

"Right.!  You  think  I'm  after  the  dough,  Bill 
Din?  That's  all  you  know  about  your  partner! 
I  ain't  a'goin'  to  take  a  pin's  worth  of  goods  from 
her  people — and  you  know  it!  But  life  don't 
show  itself  very  good  to  you,  at  this  particular 
moment " 

"It  don't ! "  said  Bill.  " Neither  in  one  way  nor 
another.     I  consider  we're  all  fools. " 

"Oh,'    said  Toad,  "pleased  you  think  yourself 


one  I 

ll 


t" 


1 1 


All  fools,  in  the  one  place  we  don't  think  it!' 
That's  right!"  said  Toad,  "but  we've  no  time 


254  The  Hunter 

to  talk,  for  I'll  git  away  to-night,  I  couldn't  lay  my 
head  on  a  pillow  in  this  makeshift  buildin' — I 
sure  think  life  is  altogether  and  completely 
disappointing!  I  tell  you,  you  may  have  every 
blamed  bit  of  your  way  in  the  disposal  of  our  shares 
of  things — yep,  Bill  Din,  the  man  that's  after  the 
dough  in  Chicago,  leaves  his  partner  what  he 
pleased  out  of  the  ranch!  Say!  How  does  that 
sound?" 

11  Do  you  think  that  a  girl,  brought  up  in  luxury, 
who  knows  you  'bout  as  well  as  I  know " 

Bill  paused,  and  Toad  was  just  going  to 
speak  again,  when,  somehow,  he  also  remained 
silent. 

"Wal',"  said  Bill,   recovering   himself,  "what 

was  I  a'sayin'?      'Twas  'bout  Miss  Martin.     You 

both  write   pages  to  each  other.      You  met  for 

a   few   minutes.     Who'll    tire    first?     Somethin' 

tells    me  t'will   be  you,   'cos   you're   the  spunky 

one!" 

Toad's  colour  deepened.      He  felt  there  was 

some  truth  in  this  remark. 


Bill  and  Toad  Part  255 

"  We're  breakin'  up,  I  s'pose?"  he  said  coldly. 

"Sure!"  said  Bill.  "Such  things  as  the  horses 
we  can  deal  with  any  time,  and  as  to  the  house, 
I'll  buy  the  whole  thing  up,  furniture  just  as  it 
stands,  it'll  do  me  for  life.  There's  somethin' 
simple  about  it,  I  kinder  like — I'll  have  Gregson 
come  in  and  set  prices  and  see  it  all  fair — so  you 
can  go  now  if  you  feel  like  it. " 

Toad  picked  up  the  suitcase  and  walked  to  the 
door.  He  stopped  to  put  on  coat  and  hat,  and 
then  he  was  gone. 

Bill  Din  remained  sitting  very  straight  in  the 
hard-backed  chair.  Toad  was  very  busy  with 
horse  and  buggy.  He  was  a  long  time  doing  this 
work,  and  fumbled  over  the  harness.  The  moon 
rose  while  he  did  it. 

He  hesitated,  standing  in  the  yard,  looking  at 
the  horse.     He  bit  his  lips. 

Finally  he  went  back  to  the  house  on  tip-toe, 
and  peered  into  the  kitchen.  Bill  Din  was  asleep 
again. 

"He'd  sleep  in  a  tornado!"  said  Lorraine,  going 


256  The  Hunter 

back  to  the  buggy  in  a  furious  temper.  "Much 
he  cares  about  his  partner — after  five  solid  years, 
day  in,  day  out — he  sleeps  it  off!"  He  jumped 
into  the  buggy  and  drove  out  of  the  yard. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 


"we  can  change  our  minds" 


BERTHA  MARTIN  stood  in  the  depot  about 
eleven  o'clock  on  Saturday  morning. 

The  thick  white  veil  she  wore  over  her  fair  face, 
disguised  it  from  passers-by. 

It  took  Toad  Lorraine  about  five  minutes  to 
discover  her.  He  remembered  her  by  her  small, 
rather  nervous  fingers.  She  was  playing  with  a 
rose-coloured  scarf  she  wore  around  her  neck,  and 
it  was  this  undecided  action  which  reminded  him 
of  the  afternoon  following  the  races.  He  came  up 
to  her. 

Bertha  immediately  lifted  her  veil,  and  looked 
at  him. 

"Pleased  to  see  you  again, "  said  Toad. 

He  put  his  suitcase  down  beside  her. 
I'm  quite  all  right,  thank  you, "  said  Bertha. 


«  <  T>. 


17  257 


258  The  Hunter 

Toad  wondered  how  he  had  talked  to  her  on  that 
afternoon  in  the  spring.  There  seemed  nothing  to 
say.     He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Got  away  all  right?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  Bertha. 

They  remained  standing  together  in  silence  for 
a  long  five  minutes. 

Toad's  foot  beat  a  tattoo  and  he  yawned,  but 
Bertha  was  motionless. 

'The  train  west  goes  in  two  hours, "  said  Toad. 

Let's  have  a  spanking  good  lunch  before  we " 

"I  lunched  before  I  left,"  interrupted  Bertha. 

"That's  good!"  said  Toad  cheerily.  "Say, 
hadn't  you  better  put  that  veil  down,  case  some 
of  your  folks  was  in  the  depot?" 

Bertha  put  the  veil  down.  It  clung  about  her 
small  features  as  if  it  were  damp,  giving  a  rather 
rabbit-like  look  to  her  profile. 

Toad  spoke  again:  "We'd  better  get  to  work 
and  be  married. " 

'Mr.  Lorraine,  I  feel  I  don't  know  how  to  begin 
— I'm  certain  I  can't  marry  you  to-day.  " 


"We  Can  Change  Our  Minds"  259 

Toad  gave  her  a  glance. 

"Mr.  Lorraine,  I'm  perfectly  certain  I  can't  get 
married  to-day.  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I  want 
a  long  sensible  talk  with  you.  We  certainly  don't 
know  each  other,  as  we  ought  to  do,  consider- 
ing the  step  we've  been  contemplating.  I  think 
we've  let  our  pens  run  away  with  our  common 
sense. " 

"Right!"  said  Toad.  "You're  in  crder,  Miss 
Martin — mine's  the  blame  for  over-haste — always 
so  with  my  coloured  hair.  Say,  how  would  you 
like  a  trip  into  the  country?  We'd  talk  it  out — 
talk  it  out  to  a  good  purpose,  I  believe. ' 

"It  would  be  perfectly  lovely!"  said  Bertha. 
"0,  don't  mind  me  if  I  can't  say  a  word  for  a  while. 
The  last  two  days  I've  been  thinking  about  life  so 
much  that  now  I  can't  think  at  all — I've  kept  it 
all  to  myself — from  Momma — and  Alderly  and  Per- 
cy— I  think  Percy  kinder  guessed  something " 

"Percy  and  Alderly  are  your  brothers?"  in- 
quired Toad.  "I  see — what  about  our  suit- 
cases?    Shall  we  leave  them  in  Chicago?    That's 


260  The  Hunter 

best.  Now  enjoy  yourself  to  the  full,  Miss  Martin, 
and  take  a  day  off  from  your  folks.  Forget  they 
raised  you,  and  let's  have  a  good  time.  And  don't 
be  nervous — it's  a  perfectly  free  country — we  can 
change  our  minds.  Gee!  Think  of  your  friend, 
Miss  Lake!" 

"I  surely  have  thought  of  her,  Mr.  Lorraine. 
I  wept  when  I  thought  of  Mr.  Din!" 

"Bill?  He's  in  the  best  way  I  ever  seen  him, 
since  we  was  partners!  Bill  don't  care — not  in  the 
least.  You  see,  Miss  Martin,  everything  takes 
its  place  in  a  kind  of  order,  which  prepares  us 
for  change.  Nothin'  stands  still  in  this  world — 
change  is  the  whole  value  of  life!" 

"I'm  grateful  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said  Bertha. 
"I've  scarcely  slept  at  all  this  week.  I've  been 
near  a  brain  fever,  feeling  the  momentous  step 
driving  me  onwards. " 

"We'll  not  be  driven!"  said  Toad.  "They  may 
be  in  books,  Miss  Martin,  but  in  life  it's  the  shoe 
on  the  other  foot.  " 

Bertha  continued:  "I'd  like  to  think  I'd  got  no 


"We  Can  Change  Our  Minds"  261 

relations  for  a  whole  week,  and  see  how  things 
happen " 

"Oh,  they'd  happen  all  right,"  said  Toad. 
"But  I  hope  you'll  find  this  day  full  of  happenings, 
even  though  it's  only  a  good  sensible  talk  between 
ourselves.  Now  I  ain't  a'goin'  to  speak  another 
word  after  we  git  on  the  cars.  You  must  just 
rest.  And  when  we  git  into  the  country,  we'll  talk 
big  about  life,  see?  I'll  burn  all  your  letters  if  you 
wish  it! — Sure.  " 

"Perfectly  lovely!"  said  Bertha.  "I'll  do  the 
same  with  yours,  Mr.  Lorraine,  and  we'll  just  have 
a  sensible  talk  about  it — about  how  we  came  to 
agree — to — to " 

"And  you  shall  order  it,  and  settle  what  we'll 
do!"  said  Toad.  And  ruminating  on  the  cars,  he 
grew  solemn  and  careworn,  having  the  ranch  on  his 
mind. 

1 '  Bill's  bested  me, "  he  said  to  himself.  ' '  Maybe 
I'll  git  even  yet.  If  Miss  Martin  don't  throw  me 
the  mitten  before  the  day's  out — I'll  give  up  my 
country!" 


I 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

BILL  AND  TOAD  MAKE   UP 

WONDER  what   Bill's   done,"   was  Toad's 
thought.      "Has  he  fixed  up  to  git  along 
without  me?" 

The  journey  across  the  desert,  in  the  sweltering 
heat  of  a  summer's  day,  had  only  one  aspect  for 
Bill's  partner.  He  saw  it  all  in  a  dream,  the  back- 
ground to  his  anxiety;  but  for  itself,  it  had  no 
meaning. 

_He  met  Spen  in  Alamanca  Creek  and  got  no 
satisfaction  from  him.  He  heard  that  Bill  Din 
was  civil  to  nobody. 

"You'll  go  crazy  if  you  live  with  him,"  said 

Spen.     "You   quit   it,   and   join   me!     Gregson's 

sold  me  part  of  his  land  and  there's  black  jack  only 

wants  the  dollars  to  turn  it  into  a  gold  mine. " 

1 '  A  horse  is  my  fancy, ' '  said  Toad.    ' '  Good-bye. ' ' 

262 


Bill  and  Toad  Make  Up         263 

Lorraine  parted  with  the  man  who  had  brought 
him  across  the  desert:  and  decided  to  walk  to  the 
ranch. 

The  fact  was  painful.  He  was  no  longer  a  part 
of  the  place;  and  he  must  feel  his  way  into  Bill's 
house. 

The  corn  was  all  at  its  best,  and  the  children  at 
the  Dutch  farm  were  hiding  in  it,  for  their  mother 
wanted  them  for  bed.  The  sun  was  so  red  where 
it  was  setting  that  it  gave  the  prairie  a  curi- 
ous colour,  a  bloodlike  purple.  The  sweet  clover 
made  Toad  sneeze  loudly,  as  he  came  into  the  yard, 
and  Gin-fly  neighed  on  hearing  him. 

"Poor  ole  brute  welcomes  me, "  said  Toad,  "but 
Bill's  nature  is  different.  One  thing  go  wrong 
with  Bill,  and  he  pays  us  all  off. " 

Toad  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  stopped  at  the 
door. 

Bill  Din  was  preparing  to  go  riding. 

"Hello,"  said  Toad. 

Bill  put  his  foot  on  a  chair,  and  rubbed  his  shoe 
with  some  straw  he  had  picked  off  the  floor. 


1 < 


1 1 


It 


<( 


264  The  Hunter 

"I  congratulate  you,"  he  said. 
Why?" 

You  look  so  happy, "  said  Bill. 
"'Twas  she  jilted  me,"  said  Toad.     "She  don' 
it." 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  ain't 
married. " 

Toad  shook  his  head. 
My  best  wishes. " 

Keep  the  change!"  said  Toad  carelessly. 
He  stood  against  the  door,  with  an  embarrassed 
expression  in  his  eyes,  while  Bill,  having  got  his 
shoe  to  his  fancy,  rose  to  his  full  height  and  faced 
his  late  partner. 

Darn  you!"  cried  Toad,  grinding  his  teeth. 
Sure ! "  said  Bill.    ' '  Blame  your  feelin's  on  me !" 
'There's  a  devil  in  you,  Bill  Din!     You  drive 
me  crazy  with  your  ways!" 

"I  ain't  had  an  ill  word  with  any  one  since  you 
went  off — I  ain't  spoken  to  a  soul — 'cept  the  crea- 
tures in  the  stables,  and  a  few  hogs.  I'm  goin' 
ridin'." 


<  i 


c  < 


<  < 


Bill  and  Toad  Make  Up         265 

Bill  came  to  the  door,  but  Toad's  rage  was  too 
great  to  stay  within  his  heart.  He  seized  Bill  by 
the  shoulders,  and  called  out:  "If  you've  got  a 
temper,  I've  got  one  too.  If  you've  got  trouble, 
and  it's  made  you  mad,  I've  got  it  too.  Was  the 
globe  made  for  you,  Bill  Din?  Did  the  Almighty 
God  mean  you  to  be  happy,  more'n  the  rest  of  us  ? 
See  here,  look  at  me,  I  have  my  troubles,  same  as 
you " 

Bill  burst  out:  "Light  as  that  cotton  weed 
down  there  that's  a'blowin'  the  seeds  all  over  the 
yard  at  this  present  moment!  I'll  bet  you  a  fiver, 
Toad  Lorraine,  that  you'll  be  drivin'  out  another 
girl  in  less  than  a  week!" 

"Course! — you're  the  only  one  that  stays  fixed, 
ain't  you,  Bill?  Sure  thing,  I  know  better'n  any 
man  in  Alamanca  that  all  the  love  you've  got  is  in 
your  pride  in  yourself.  Did  you  know  it?  Your 
pride's  bigger  than  anythin' — your  pride's  your 
god — what  do  you  know  about  lovin' " 

"I  know  nothin'  of  it — I've  never  seen  any  in 
this  world — 'cept  perhaps  a  mother  to  her  kid — 


266  The  Hunter 

there's  a  bit  of  natural,  faithful  feelin'  there — but 
I  ain't  you,  and  I'll  never  be  like  you !  We  should 
never  'a'  been  partners " 

' '  Never  been  partners ! ' '  said  Toad.  ' '  A  quarrel 
or  two  don't  spoil  red -headed  friendship. ' 

Bill  had  got  outside  the  door  now.  His  hand 
came  out,  and  he  pulled  Toad's  coat  sleeve,  rather 
roughly. 

"You  git  into  the  house,  and  leave  me  alone — 
and  don't  talk  to  me!  Five  years  ago  we  started 
all  right,  each  livin'  to  himself,  and  sharin'  the 
ranch.  Let's  git  back  to  the  old  happy  style — 
See?  When  you  read  signs,  take  'em,  and  ride 
out  of  my  way!" 

Din  w^nt  off  now,  and  Toad  stood  watching  him 
go.  The  sun's  beauty  had  faded,  but  a  lovely 
clear  moon,  like  a  sickle,  had  risen  over  the  prairie. 
Beside  her  was  a  star  or  two.  Lorraine,  facing  the 
soft  undulating  waving  grasses,  beamed  at  the 
moon,  putting  his  hands  deep  into  his  pockets,  as 
he  said  to  himself: 

"He  wants  me,  sure  thing,  he's  missed  me!  I  see 


Bill  and  Toad  Make  Up         267 

it  as  plain  as  that  moon!  Gee-whizz,  we'll  have 
the  ole  times,  and  no  mistake.  We'll  have  the 
time  of  our  lives  yet,  see  if  we  don't ! " 

He  went  into  the  house,  and  was  oppressed  with 
the  dismal  atmosphere. 

"Kinder  gits  me,"  said  Toad,  "'twould  make  a 
man  blue  to  look  round  at  Bill's  things.  Same 
time,  spite  of  Bill's  faithfulness,  tain't  me,  nor 
another  man  can  make  the  poor  fellow  natural. 
Tain't  a  bit  lucky  to  be  like  Bill!  I'm  kinder  sure 
that  seein'  what  it  was — No,  I  ain't  able  to  do 
more'n  live  beside  him.  " 

Toad  Lorraine  unpacked  his  suitcase. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 


" BOUND   BY   FAITH" 


HAL  ROBBS,  sitting  at  the  door  of  the  tent, 
was  dictating  to  his  secretary. 

This  work  went  forward  briskly  until  the  dark- 
ness fell,  when  the  leader  of  the  Expedition  into 
Red  Indian  Psychology  told  his  workman  that  he 
might  go. 

"Send  for  John  D.  Scale,"  he  said. 

The  secretary  went  out  and  Robbs  took  out  a 
pipe,  lit  it,  and  began  to  puff  out  the  smoke,  watch- 
ing the  curls  of  grey  cloud  widen,  as  they  sought 
the  evening  air. 

Robbs  was  in  a  predicament.     He  had  set  to 

work  to  understand  the  Indian,  and  he  was  baffled 

— there  was  something  bigger  than  a  continent 

268 


" Bound  by  Faith"  269 

between  himself  and  his  object.     Robbs  thought 
it  must  be  the  ignorance  of  the  Indian. 

John  D.  Scale  made  his  presence  known  by 
the  snapping  of  twigs,  and  the  moving  of 
leaves. 

He  was  a  thin  downcast  man,  with  a  cast  in  one 
eye. 

"Sit  down,  Scale.  I  hear  you  made  a  discovery 
this  afternoon?" 

Scale  nodded  his  head. 
"A  man,"  he  added. 

'A  man  who  can  talk  with  the  Indians,  eh?" 
That's  right,"  said  Scale. 
Did  you  talk  with  the  man?" 
"I  did." 

[Why  didn't  you  bring  him  to  me?" 
Ee  ain't  amenable,"  Scale  said.     "Ee's  a  bird 
with  all  his  wings  whole.  " 
'What's  that  mean?" 

Ee's  a  wild  one  wot  loves  the  woods.     Ee's  an 
odd  soul. " 

"We  must  doctor  his  soul,  eh,  Scale?" 


<< 


<<< 


<« 


<r 


it- 


t  c 


1  < 


270  The  Hunter 


"Try,"  said  Scale,  sadly. 

"We  must  clear  away  difficulties.  A  man  is 
worthy  of  his  hire.  If  you'll  get  the  man,  you'll 
have  one  hundred  dollars,  Scale!" 

Scale  scrambled  to  his  feet:  "Twenty  pounds, 
ain't  it?  'Twould  buy  my  passage  back  to  Eng- 
land four  times  over!" 

"Get  him  as  fast  as  you  can!"  said  Robbs. 

Scale  went  away  with  a  commotion.  The  op- 
pressive joy  of  the  hundred  dollars  made  him  run 
under  the  trees. 

"The  Penitentiary!"  said  Robbs,  watching  him 
go,  "but  a  good  man  for  me — he's  meeker  than  a 
mouse!" 

Robbs  hastily  penned  a  paragraph  for  the  lead- 
ing newspapers.     It  ran  as  follows: 

The  remarkable  book  in  preparation,  Red  Indian 
Psychology,  is  in  the  trustworthy  hands  of  Hal  Robbs, 
the  famous  mind-reader.  Nothing  is  being  spared  to 
render  the  book  the  last  word  on  this  fascinating  race. 
It  is  whispered  that  Robbs  has  procured  the  co-opera- 
tion of  a  man  who  has  spent  his  life  entirely  in  the 
woods — one  who  has  penetrated  into  the  mysterious 
clouds  of  the  Indian's  mental  horizon.    .    .    . 


" Bound  by  Faith"  271 

John  D.  Scale  was  as  glad  as  the  evening,  and  it 
was  a  lovely  close  to  a  long,  sunny  day. 

"Buy  my  passage  back  to  England  four  times 
over!"  he  was  saying  to  himself,  as  he  made  his 
way  through  the  wood.  "Wot  a  good  thing  I 
'ave  a  habit  of  roamin' !" 

Louis  Buttress  was  surprised  to  see  a  man  emerge 
into  the  clearing.  He  had  met  John  D.  Scale  the 
day  before,  and  had  talked  with  him.  The  mel- 
ancholy of  the  poor  fellow  had  found  an  answering 
chord  in  the  hunter's  heart,  and  what  was  still  more 
serviceable,  the  conversation  had  driven  away  a 
weary  army  of  questions,  which  Louis's  mind  never 
failed  to  give  him  during  these  long  August  days. 

Buttress  was  going  towards  the  oak  forest,  but 
was  brought  to  a  full  stop. 

"I've  come  back!"  said  Scale. 

He  clasped  his  hands  and  gave  Louis  a  weird 
look. 

"Ain't  you  all  on  your  lonesome?"  continued 
Scale.  "There's  nobody  nor  nothin'  to  keep  you 
from  'elpin'  us.     I  want  you  to  come  along  and  see 


If 


(<- 


272  The  Hunter 

our  boss.  He's  a  lot  to  say  to  you,  for  he's  a 
friend  of  the  Indians,  and  he  knows  you  like  them." 
'What's  he  doing?" 

'Writin'  a  book  all  abart  'em.  'Ee  wants  you 
to  give  him  a  note  here  and  there.  It'll  be  a  fine 
piece  of  work  for  you,  and  no  trouble  in  it.  I've 
taken  a  particular  fancy  to  you,  can't  say  why,  but 
I  'ave — if  you  ain't  anythin'  partickler  on  hand, 
try  the  job. " 

'Til  try  it,"  said  Buttress. 
So  the  two  men  set  off  for  Robbs's  camping- 
ground. 

Robbs  was  just  about  to  "turn  in, "  as  the  night 
was  growing  chilly,  but  the  news  that  the  man  had 
been  secured  kept  him  out  a  little  longer. 
He  looked  at  Buttress. 
So — you're  a  friend  of  the  Indians?" 
Sure,"  said  Louis. 
Know  'em  right  off?" 
"Sure." 

"Can  you  fathom  them  before  they  act?" 
Buttress  paused. 


« <  1 


1  < 


1  < 


" Bound  by  Faith"  273 

"Can  you  ?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"No — that's  what  I  want  you  for.  The  other 
day,  an  Indian  promised  to  meet  me  at  a  certain 
spot  by  the  stream.  We  were  to  have  a  great  talk 
— see?  All  was  straight  as  a  ruler,  I  was  there  at 
the  time — so  was  the  Indian " 

"And  it  didn't  come  off?"  said  Buttress. 

"He  might  as  well  have  been  dumb.  After- 
wards, I  found  I'd  given  him  information  instead 
of  getting  any  from  him !  He  used  it  against  me, 
and  I  want  to  catch  him  for  punishment.  I  expect 
he's  in  this  neighbourhood. 

"Very  likely  he's  in  the  grass  beside  you,"  said 
Louis. 

It  was  dark  now,  the  moon  out,  the  stars  faintly 
shining,  and  the  weeds  rustling.  Robbs  got  up 
from  his  seat. 

'You  think  so?     How  do  they  do  it?" 

'They  ain't  out  of  touch  with  Nature,  that's  all! 
What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ? " 

Robbs  was   quiet   for   two   minutes.     He  was 

summing  up  the  importance  of  the  occasion.     The 
18 


ti- 


ll' 


274  The  Hunter 

book  was  lagging,  and  here,  in  his  presence,  was  the 
kind  of  man  who  could  give  him  everything  he 
wanted,  so,  after  a  rapid  calculation  Robbs  said : 
1  ■  I  want  you  to  find  this  man  and  tell  me  where 
he  is.  Not  only  that,  to  give  me  all  the  informa- 
tion you  have  about  Indians.  I  ask  you  to  give 
yourself  to  me  and  you  shall  be  well  paid.  I  pro- 
mise you  a  share  in  the  book,  a  portrait  of  yourself 
as  a  frontispiece,  and  a  big  name  as  a  student  of 
men.  I'll  take  you  to  the  big  cities  and  show  you 
up.  I  lecture  and  I'll  show  you  as  a  man  who  has 
made  a  real  study  of  the  woods.  I'll  furnish  you 
with  money  to  do  this  work.  I'll  make  you! 
Name  your  price. " 

Indians  have  no  price,"  said  Buttress. 
What?      Don't     understand     money?      Still, 
something  holds  them  to  their  friends,  eh?" 

"Where  is  the  man  that  don't  hold  to  his 
friends?"  said  Buttress. 

1 '  They  trust  you — anyway !  You  must  use  it  for 
the  benefit  of  mankind.  A  good  book  on  the  In- 
dian is  wanted.     You  must  help  me  to  produce  it. ' ' 


« < 


i  < 


" Bound  by  Faith"  275 

''By  what  means?" 

"By  all  means,  Buttress.  That's  how  men  get 
on!" 

Hal  Robbs  spoke  with  emphasis.  He  came 
up  to  Buttress  and  laid  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

The  hunter  shook  him  off:  "Nothin'  on  the 
face  of  this  earth  would  induce  me  to  listen  to  you. 
I  was  tol'  you  was  a  history  writer,  and  liked 
Indians.  If  I  named  this  pantomime  work  in  its 
true  colours  I'd  a -say  these  poor  fellows  was  all  a 
cinematographing,  to  make  a  dollar  bug  out  of  you ! 
If  an  Indian  gives  me  the  best  of  himself,  in  all  good 
faith,  I'm  bound  by  faith  to  give  the  best  to  him. 
What  have  you  given  me?  Your  character.  Your 
want  of  it,  I  might  say.  You'd  take  my  knowledge, 
secured  at  the  price  of  a  heart  innocent  of  trickery, 
and  you'd  use  it  to  furnish  up  your  lies!  And 
there'd  be  me,  the  hunter,  fooled  by  the  sneak, 
exposing  the  Indian  to  the  gaping  crowds  in  the  big 
cities.  And  it  wouldn't  be  the  real  Indian,  neither, 
but  the  horrible  result  of  innocence  and  falsehood. 


276  The  Hunter 

I  never  want  to  see  the  trash  you  write — I'll  go 
and  live  with  the  Indians!" 

But  even  as  Buttress  walked  off  from  Robbs 
he  was  seized  by  two  men.  One  of  them  was  the 
unfortunate  John  D.  Scale. 

"Bind  him!  He's  a  tough  man,"  said  Robbs, 
carelessly.  "Fasten  him  to  the  oak  tree.  Tell 
the  Swede  we  want  him.    He's  a  man  of  muscle. ' 

Buttress,  seeing  the  impossibility  of  getting 
away,  allowed  himself  to  be  bound,  but  all  the  time 
he  was  watching  John  D.  Scale.  The  unfortunate 
fellow  was  looking  crookedly  at  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 


"bill  and  anne" 


MRS.  BUTT  was  the  new  teacher  at  No.  10, 
a  school  about  three  miles  from  Alamanca 
Creek.  She  was  an  Englishwoman,  and  it  was  her 
first  experience  of  America,  so  she  was  enjoying  the 
country  very  much. 

•    No.  io  was  situated  about  a  mile  from  the  horse 
ranch. 

Her  favourite  pupil  was  Fanny  Eden,  a  girl  of 
about  twelve,  the  oldest  of  a  family  of  nine,  and 
Bill  Din  had  lately  taken  Ambrose  Eden,  Fanny's 
nine-year-old  brother,  to  be  chore-boy  at  the  ranch. 

Mrs.  Butt  had  been  married  very  young,  and 

her  husband  had  died  within  the  year,  and  when 

the  widow  was  able  to  think  of  the  future  she  had 

felt  the  wisdom  of  taking  a  complete  change. 

277 


278  The  Hunter 

She  had  been  only  a  few  months  in  America 
when  her  duties  came  to  an  end,  for  the  time  being, 
with  the  early  summer  holidays.  Mrs.  Butt  did 
not  go  away.  She  took  many  a  ramble  in  the 
woods,  and  over  the  rolling  pasture-land. 

When  a  country  and  climate  are  unknown,  it  is 
well  to  be  guided  by  the  natives,  yet  Anne  Butt 
found  herself  constantly  forgetting  this,  thinking 
she  was  in  England,  and  judging  the  clouds  by  the 
old  familiar  signs  of  home. 

Several  times  she  was  overtaken  by  the  dark, 
forgetting  the  absence  of  dusk  in  this  new  country ; 
and  one  Saturday  in  early  June  she  was  caught 
by  an  electric  storm,  when  about  a  mile  from 
home. 

A  man,  driving  a  team  of  frightened  horses, 
pulled  up  for  a  moment,  to  advise  her  to  get  into 
shelter  at  once.  He  pointed  in  the  direction  of 
some  big  frame  buildings.  ''The  men  there  have 
got  a  root -house,  and  you  can  git  a  ride  after  the 
worst  is  over." 

So  Anne  took  a  path  along  the  edge  of  an  Indian 


"Bill  and  Anne"  279 

corn  patch.  The  corn  was  very  green  and  getting 
waist  high.     It  was  a  beautiful  sight. 

By  and  by  the  prairie  came  in  view,  and  in  some 
ways  the  waving  grass  resembled  the  sea.  It  lay 
beyond  the  ranch,  the  group  of  feeding  ponies 
being  the  only  break  in  the  vista. 

Anne  felt  that  she  could  not  run,  even  if  the 
storm  killed  her,  so  she  went  forward  slowly,  be- 
ginning to  distinguish  the  rattle  of  thunder,  boom- 
ing nearer  and  nearer,  in  a  growing,  darkening, 
swiftly  moving  cloud. 

Then  came  a  silence  all  around  her.  If  a  leaf 
moved,  it  moved  individually,  as  though  it  spoke. 
Leaves  whispered  separately.  The  hiss  of  an 
insect  was  like  a  boiling  kettle.  Not  a  bird  uttered 
a  sound.  The  ground  rattled  under  the  feet,  send- 
ing off  crumbs  of  broken  red  mud,  dried  to  a  cake, 
and  parched  for  water.  Then  a  cool  whisper  of 
the  enemy  smote  Anne  on  the  cheek,  and  gave  her 
an  inward  shiver.  It  was  an  uncanny  flutter  of 
wind,  like  a  remnant  from  some  fearful  whole 
whirlwind.     She  saw  a  handful  of  red  dust  whirl 


280  The  Hunter 

round  and  round  in  a  mad  dance,  and  she  realized 
that  there  was  death  in  this  storm. 

So  she  began  to  run,  and  at  length  found  herself 
at  a  gate,  which  was  tied  by  a  piece  of  old  rope. 
She  climbed  the  bars  with  a  swiftness  born  of  neces- 
sity, and  sped  across  the  immense  bare  yard. 
As  she  crossed,  the  chickens  pushed  right  and  left, 
screaming  with  terror,  and  searching  for  shelter, 
bobbing  their  heads  in  hot  haste. 

She  had  reached  the  door  of  a  house  and  as  she 
threw  it  open,  she  felt  the  force  of  the  wind  driving 
behind  her.  She  tried  to  shut  the  door  again.  A 
man  came  and  flung  his  weight  against  it ;  and  she 
heard  a  roar  and  a  hiss,  and  the  storm  was  upon 
the  yard. 

So  they  stood  thus,  both  at  the  door,  listening 
to  the  whirling,  swirling  wind  and  rain,  beating 
like  thousands  of  whips  over  the  desolate  yard. 

It  was  far  too  swift  an  onslaught  of  water  to  find 
a  home  in  the  ground.  Rolling  and  leaping  from 
the  parched  land,  the  rain  formed  torrents  of  water 
that  splashed  and  ran  madly  in  every  direction. 


"Bill  and  Anne"  281 

''Could  we  not  open  the  door?"  asked  Anne. 

"Give  it  a  minute!"  said  the  man. 

He  beat  time  with  his  foot,  as  though  he  were 
counting  the  minute,  and  Anne  saw  that  he  was 
puzzled  with  her  sudden  appearance. 

"I  come  from  the  schoolhouse,  No.  10,"  she 
said.  "I  was  directed  here.  I  have  been  into 
the  country,  and  I  forgot  how  quickly  your  storms 
come  up." 

'Are  you  Mrs.  Butt?"  asked  the  man. 
Yes,"  said  Anne. 
Oh,"  said  he. 

He  relapsed  into  silence,  but  added,  "When  my 
partner  comes  in,  he'll  take  you  over  there.  Can 
you  ride?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Anne  eagerly. 
J 'Then  if  you  do — you  can  have  a  pony  I've  been 
taking  charge  of.     I  meant  to  send  it  away  before 
this.     You  can  take  it,  and  my  partner  will  see 
you  there. " 

And  now  Bill  Din  opened  the  door,  and  Anne 
stepped  out  a  little  way,  looking  upon  the  miracu- 


« < 


« 1 


<  <  1 


282  The  Hunter 

lous  change.  The  rain  was  still  like  a  battery 
charge,  a  grey  onslaught  of  water  through  which 
the  lightning  played,  like  a  pair  of  shining  scissors 
opened  and  shut  in  swift  action ;  but  the  yard  was 
a  melee  of  water,  mud,  sticks,  wood,  straw,  and 
even  branches  of  trees. 

The  man  went  out,  and  ran  in  the  direction  of 
the  barns  and  stables,  while  Anne  returned  to  the 
bare  room.  There  was  very  little  to  look  at ;  there 
was  a  wooden  table,  capable  of  seating  a  dozen  big 
people,  and  it  held  a  sack  of  flour.  It  was  a  white 
bag,  bearing  in  blue  letters  the  words  "Alamanca 
Creek  Self  Raising  Flour,  "  and  a  blue  star  below  it. 

A  cat  walked  under  the  table,  moving  skilfully 
in  and  out  of  sundry  boots,  leggings,  shoes,  and 
straps.  Anne  sat  down  by  the  empty  stove,  think- 
ing of  the  storm. 

Bill  came  back  again:  "The  horses  are  safe, "  he 
said.  "They're  sweated  with  work,  and  they're 
easy  prey. " 

He  sat  down  and  pulled  out  two  books  from  a 
drawer  to  his  hand,  at  the  table. 


"Bill  and  Anne"  283 

"Sorry  you've  to  wait  in  such  a  place,  but  it 
don't  fall  in  my  line  to  help  you  out;  my  partner's 
the  man — that  selling  of  horses  and  seeing  to 
folks  is  his  work. " 

"I  am  glad  to  rest, "  said  Anne. 

So  Bill  took  his  books  out,  and  began  to  work  at 
them.  He  and  Toad  had  started  afresh,  and  they 
had  made  a  sweep  of  the  old  books. 

By  and  by  the  rain  stopped  and  Anne  wanted 
to  go,  but  recollecting  the  pony  saddling,  she 
looked  again  at  the  man  who  stuck  to  his  own  line 
of  work.  He  was  a  sad-looking  fellow.  And  Bill, 
thinking  of  Star,  left  the  books  and  with  his  lean 
finger,  he  patterned  out  the  big  letters  on  the  bag 
of  flour ;  and  over  and  over  again  his  fingers  found 
their  way  from  Alamanca  Creek  to  the  blue  star, 
and  from  the  star  to  Alamanca  Creek. 

He  was  wondering  how  many  more  of  these 
thunderstorms,  how  many  more  wintry  blizzards 
he  must  see  through,  how  often  he  must  rise  up 
and  lie  down  again,  before  all  was  done.  He  had 
seen  people  pick  up  their  lives,  as  easily  as  the 


284  The  Hunter 

wind  carried  the  straw  in  the  late  storm;  but  others 
who  saw  reality  as  it  was,  without  glamour,  must 
know,  long  before  they  were  dead,  that  it  was  a 
losing  game — from  beginning  to  end,  a  failure. 

And  then,  finishing  the  lettering  of  the  bag  once 
again,  the  lean  finger  hesitated  in  its  action;  and 
Bill  slowly  turned  his  head. 

He  saw  Anne  looking  at  him. 

It  was  a  terribly  strange  experience  for  a  desper- 
ate fellow  to  meet  those  eyes. 

Bill  looked  away,  and  so  did  Anne,  but  he  felt  as 
if  he  must  not  move,  lest  he  broke  the  spell.  Bill 
remained  sitting  in  absolute  silence,  not  moving 
now,  but  wondering  what  had  happened  to  him. 

He  felt  as  if  his  troubles  had  all  been  met  and 
carried  away  for  ever. 

He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  riding  on  a  race-horse 
to  old  age,  but  that  someone  had  unsaddled  him, 
and  taken  him 

Bill's  lips  twitched,  and  with  a  tremendous 
effort  he  got  up  and  went  out  of  the  kitchen. 

As  soon  as  he  had  gone,  the  tears  came  into 


"Bill  and  Anne"  285 

Anne's  eyes,  and  she  rubbed  them  quickly  away, 
and  went  to  the  looking-glass,  and  put  her  hat  and 
veil  on,  and  fastened  them  securely  with  pins  and 
bows,  and  made  herself  ready  to  go. 

"I'll  take  you, "  said  Bill,  appearing  at  the  door. 

"I'm  ready." 

Anne  came  out,  and  saw  Star,  who  whinnied  at 
her,  and  was  pleased  to  be  petted  by  a  lady.  Then 
Bill  Din  helped  the  lady  to  mount,  and  got  up  on 
the  sorrel  mare ;  and  the  horses  went  slowly  splash- 
ing through  the  mud. 

They  never  spoke  to  one  another.  They  rode 
slowly  through  the  fragrant  air,  listening  to  the 
tumultuous  voices  of  water.  The  birds  had  begun 
to  try  their  special  notes  again,  and  the  journey, 
which  lay  in  the  opposite  direction  to  the  prairie, 
took  Anne  upon  a  beautiful  tree-shaded  road, 
hedged  in  with  weeds  and  sweet  clover.  Red  mud 
might  hamper  them  all  the  way,  but  water  dripped 
from  oaks  and  maples.  Oaks  were  everywhere, 
like  hawthorns  in  England,  and  the  mocking  bird 
sang  in  ecstasy. 


286  The  Hunter 

Reaching  the  schoolhouse,  which  was  situated 
at  the  crossing  of  four  roads,  Bill  dismounted  and 
opened  the  gate,  leading  to  the  Eden  place.  It 
lay  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  below  the  school,  in 
a  hollow,  amongst  the  trees.  Mrs.  Butt's  frame 
cottage  was  to  the  left,  but  nearer  No.  10. 

' '  If  you  want  a  horse  for  riding — use  one  of  ours 
— it'll  do  'em  good,"  said  Bill.  "Keep  Star  until  I 
send  another  in  her  place — Eden  will  take  charge 
of  her." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Anne. 

And  Bill  Din  got  up  on  the  sorrel  mare  and 
cantered  away  into  the  mud  and  slush. 

"  'Twas  strange,"  said  he,  "an  angel  couldn't 
be  more  meaning.  '\ 


M 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

BILL  TELLS  ANNE 

R.  and  Mrs.  Eden  were  always  at  work  when 
they  were  up,  and  they  slept  well  at  night. 
The  children  had  no  luxuries,  yet  they  thrived 
splendidly — the  only  one  who  was  in  any  way  put 
upon  by  her  parents'  difficulties  in  rearing  a  big 
family,  was  Fanny,  and  Mrs.  Butt,  realizing  that 
the  poor  child  was  sometimes  so  sleepy  she  could 
not  do  her  work  at  school,  had  arranged  to  keep 
her  with  her,  when  lessons  began  again. 

Mrs.  Eden  said  to  her  husband:  "Fanny  must 
go  and  live  with  Mrs.  Butt.  That'll  just  make 
things  straight.  The  rest  of  the  children  have  all 
had  better  times  than  our  Fanny,  and  if  she  gits 
with  Mrs.  Butt,  it'll  be  better  than  the  school  work. 

It's  Fanny's  chance,  I  see." 

287 


288  The  Hunter 

'It'll  be  hard  on  you, "  said  Mr.  Eden. 

"It  must  be  done, "  said  Mrs.  Eden. 

When  Mrs.  Eden  said  so  much,  Mr.  Eden  saw 
it  happen. 

So  Anne  was  a  welcome  guest  at  the  Eden  place 
and  never  came  too  early  or  stayed  too  long,  and 
Mr.  Eden  was  pleased  to  look  after  Star.  This 
morning  Anne  lingered  in  the  big  busy  kitchen. 

It  was  a  scene  of  the  most  attractive  sort. 
There  were  children  everywhere,  in  the  best  of 
health  and  spirits,  tumbling  over  one  another  in  the 
desire  to  have  everything  out  of  life.  Mrs.  Eden 
was  making  butter.  Fanny  was  washing  up  and 
Bertha  was  wiping  dishes.  The  window  seats 
were  filled  with  big  mugs  of  flowers,  brought  in  by 
the  little  ones.  The  two  youngest  children  were 
cutting  paper  to  bits,  and  strewing  the  floor  with 
their  efforts.  The  baby  was  the  only  quiet  one, 
and  he  lay  asleep  in  the  cradle. 

Anne  looked  at  the  piece  of  muslin,  thrown  over 
the  cradle-head  to  keep  away  any  daring  flies. 
It  was  a  well-watched  baby. 


Bill  Tells  Anne  289 

"So  Mr.  Din  brought  you  over,  after  the  storm, " 
said  Mrs.  Eden. 

"He  was  tall  and  dark,"  said  Anne,  "and  he 
was  sad-looking." 

She  got  up  to  go  and  Mrs.  Eden  said,  "I'll  come 
with  you  to  the  gate. " 

When  they  were  outside,  Mrs.  Eden,  blinking 
her  eyes  in  the  sunlight,  continued:  "Yes,  that's 
Bill  Din.  He's  the  dark  one — the  other  partner's 
red-haired.     They're  both  good  fellows." 

"Something  has  happened  to  him,  surely, "  said 
Anne. 

"That's  how  life  goes,  Mrs.  Butt,"  said  Mrs. 
Eden.  "Trouble  comes  to  all.  He's  had  trouble, 
I  do  know!" 

"A  fine  straight  boy,"  said  Anne,  "with  a  gen- 
erous intention,  and  a  good  heart.  He  loved  the 
wrong  girl,  of  course.  " 

"Sure, "  said  Mrs.  Eden.  "She  was  a  good  girl, 
too;  but  she's  at  that  age  when  she  ain't  able  to 
see  what  things  mean.  She's  married  a  real  fine 
man,  but  the  last  I  thought  she'd  have  chosen.  Only 

19 


290  The  Hunter 

these  things  don't  come  out  like  we'd  think.  She 
was  a  fine,  beautiful  girl,  and  she's  done  well,  so 
there's  good  comes  out  eventually." 

"Good?"  said  Anne.  "What  about  Mr.  Din? 
Any  one  could  see  that  a  man  of  his  temperament 
was  real,  through  and  through,  not  one  hair- 
breadth of  flippancy  in  him.  If  any  girl  played 
with  that  thorough-bred  nature,  she  deserved  the 
worst  that  could  happen. " 

"You're  some  hard  on  her,  Mrs.  Butt. " 

"I  am.  I  hate  the  girl  who  undid  that  poor 
young  fellow." 

"You'll  do  more  good  being  sorry  for  him,  than 
being  mad  with  her,"  said  Mrs.  Eden. 

"O,  it's  no  use  being  sorry  for  him, "  said  Anne. 

"Mind  the  road,  Mrs.  Butt,"  said  Mrs.  Eden. 
"Keep  to  the  way  the  children  go,  and  you'll  be 
best." 

The  next  morning  Anne  heard  a  knock  at  her 
door  before  ten  o'clock,  and  opening  it  she  saw  a 
tall,  lanky  young  man,  riding  the  sorrel  mare. 


Bill  Tells  Anne  291 

'Say,  ma'am,  are  you  Mrs.  Butt?" 

"Yes,"  said  Anne. 

"My  partner  wants  you  to  come  over  to  our 
place  and  fix  on  a  horse  for  riding. " 

Toad  dismounted,  and  continued:  "The  horses 
want  using,  and  there's  few  women  have  time  to 
ride.  Now  if  you'll  ride  and  let  my  partner  go 
alongside,  you'll  be  doing  a  mighty  good  thing;  for 
Bill  Din  has  had  horses  on  his  brain  too  much.  I 
fear  a  mental  collapse.  A  lady  to  talk  to  might 
let  him  go  from  the  business  strain,  and  give  him  a 
new  sweep  of  life.  He  don't  offer  to  go  anywhere, 
but  he's  liked  you,  as  I  feel  in  my  bones,  and  he'll 
never  have  the  sauce  to  refuse  you,  if  you  ask  him 
in  preference  to  me. " 

"So  I  am  to  ask  him,  and  so  compel  him,  have 
I?" 

"It's  sure  a  good  thing  if  you  do,  because  you  see 
as  I  said  to  you  before,  he's  got  business  on  the 
brain.  He's  running  to  seed  with  work,  ma'am,  and 
it's  sure  killing  him.  Now  what  he  wants  is  a  lady 
who  likes  horses,  to  lead  him  from  horses — see?" 


292  The  Hunter 


<  < 


« < 


1 '  I  see — very  clearly.  May  I  know  the  partner's 
name?" 

"Toad    Lorraine,    and    surely    yours,    ma'am. 
Very  pleased  to  meet  you,  and  count  you  provi- 
dential.    Called   by  my  best  friends    'T' — a  big 
capital  T — short  and  sweet.  " 
'Am  I  to  call  you  'T'?" 

Sure,  if  you'll  honour  me.  And  say,  ma'am, 
women  are  our  helpmates,  and  come  in  on  every 
occasion  when  most  needed.  I  lost  my  head  over 
a  girl — happily  my  heart  remained  with  me.  All's 
well  that  ends  well !  But  I  hold  a  high  ideal  of  all 
your  feminine  world.  What  are  we  without 
you?" 

Anne  laughed,  at  which  Lorraine  looked  im- 
mensely surprised. 

So  that  afternoon  Bill  Din,  roaming  about  the 
prairie  met  Anne,  riding  on  Star,  and  they  con- 
ferred over  horses. 

It  took  an  hour  to  decide  on  one  for  her,  and 
then  Bill  promised  to  bring  "Whitefoot"  the  next 
morning. 


Bill  Tells  Anne  293 


<  «  T>. 


I'm  no  companion,"  he  said.     "Ain't  nothin' 
to  say  to  any  one. " 

"Then  we'll  suit  each  other,"  said  Anne,  "for 
I  want  to  be  quiet. " 

And  so  began  some  soothing  and  happy  days. 
Anne  and  Bill  rode  and  rode  and  rode,  and  they 
never  talked,  except  to  arrange  "where"  and 
"when";  and  Anne  was  full  of  exhilaration,  and 
Bill's  haggard  eyes  lost  some  of  their  unmeaning 
strain.  The  horizon  of  the  broad  road  is  far  better 
than  the  one  made  by  an  imprisoned  mind. 

One  day  when  Bill  and  Anne  were  riding  into 
Alamanca,  Bill  said,  quite  suddenly: 

"I  ain't  been  here — since — that  dreadful  time!" 

"What  time?"  said  Anne. 

"Before  that  thunderstorm, "  said  Bill. 

He  said  it  slowly  as  if  he  did  not  know  what  he 
meant,  but  immediately  afterwards,  having  to  dis- 
mount, and  coming  to  Anne,  to  help  her  to  do  so, 
he  said,  "Forgive  me.  What's  it  to  you  when  I'm 
mad  or  glad?     Nothin'!     Forgive  me. " 


294  The  Hunter 

"It  is  something  to  me, "  said  Anne. 

Bill  looked  into  her  face,  and  then  said  slowly: 

"Sympathy.  God's  best  gift  to  His  punished 
children. " 

And  Anne  went  into  a  hardware  store  to  buy 
something  she  did  not  want,  while  Bill  walked  up 
to  the  Town  Hall,  enjoying  the  vivid  clearness  of 
the  day. 

"She  knows  now — what  I've  been  longing  to 
tell  her  ever  since!"  he  muttered. 

And  Bill  bought  her  bananas  and  chocolate  and 
raisins,  and  begged  her  to  take  some  lunch,  as  they 
rode  back. 

"You  oughter  be  hungry,"  said  he.  "I  sure 
am. 


CHAPTER  XL 

A  BIRTHDAY  WITH  ANNE 

RIDING  through  Alamanca  one  day  with  Bill 
Din,  Mrs.  Butt  drew  rein  at  a  gate,  where, 
within  the  yard,  there  was  a  sale  in  process. 
"I  should  like  to  watch  a  while, "  said  she. 
So  they  remained  near  the  gate,  until  a  man 
wishing  to  come  out,   the  riders  moved  slowly 
away. 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Anne. 
They  call  him  Sheridan, "  said  Din. 
He's  an  Englishman,  isn't  he?" 
"I  believe  so." 
Anne  was  silent  for  a  while. 
'He  looks  down-hearted,"  she  said,  after  an- 
other pause. 

Do  you  see  that  tower  in  the  far  distance?" 

295 


Hi 


<  ( 


( ( 


296  The  Hunter 

inquired  Bill.  "Look  well,  and  carefully,  and  tell 
me  if  you  see  it.  " 

' '  Perfectly  well, ' '  said  Anne.     ' '  Why  ? ' ' 

"That  is  Barville  Water  Tower — You  have  good 
eyesight, "  said  Bill  Din.  "Do  keep  using  it,  Mrs. 
Butt,  I  like  to  see  you  search  the  horizon. " 

Anne  said  nothing  until  they  were  riding  back 
to  the  schoolhouse. 

"Will  you  stay  to  supper,  Mr.  Din?" 

"Sorry  I  can't  to-night,  but  to-morrow's  my 
birthday. " 

"Come  to-morrow,"  said  Anne. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Bill. 

He  rode  away,  Anne  watching  him  go. 

Fanny  Eden  was  delighted  to  hear  that  Mr. 
Din  was  coming  to  supper  on  his  birthday.  She 
talked  about  it  all  morning  to  Mrs.  Butt. 

"Ain't  it  good  you've  got  him  to  stay  to  supper? 
He  ain't  stayed  at  any  house  for  a  long  while — 
not  to  eat  anythin'.  He  eats  at  home — by  himself 
they  say — Lorraine  don't  even  know  what  he  gits. 
He  don't  like  company  any  more. " 


A  Birthday  with  Anne  297 

Mrs.  Eden  sent  up  a  birthday  cake  with  Fanny 
at  about  five  o'clock.  It  had  been  a  cause  of 
great  excitement  to  the  Eden  family  for  it  was 
made  in  five  layers,  and  had  every  appearance  of 
melting  in  the  mouth. 

When  Bill  arrived,  he  was  met  by  the  little  girl. 

"Mrs.  Butt's  ridden  up  to  Alamanca  on  some 
business.  She'll  be  back  any  time.  I'm  to  see 
you  stay  till  she  gits  back.  " 

Bill  sat  down. 

!See  the  flowers  in  the  vase?"  she  said. 
Sure,"  said  Bill. 

For  your  birthday,"  said  Fanny.    "See  the 
damask  cloth  with  the  red  edge?" 

"I  certainly  see  it,  "  said  Bill. 
'For  your  birthday,"  said  Fanny.     "Ain't  you 
in  clover?" 

Bill  nodded. 

Fanny  continued:  "I  like  your  tie,  Mr.  Din. 
Say  when  I  grow  up,  I'll  choose  a  man  like  you. 
I  want  to  tell  you  somethin',  will  you  let  me?" 

Bill  Din  looked  at  her.    He  got  up  from  the  sofa 


1 1 


< « < 


<  < 


298'  The  Hunter 

where  he  had  been  sitting,  and  came  to  the  win- 
dow. Fanny  Eden  was  standing,  with  folded  arms, 
gazing  at  him. 

"What  is  it?" 

'"Bout  Mrs.  Butt?" 

"Sure." 

"Wal,  she  gits  thoroughly  done  by  everybody." 

Bill  was  silent. 

"Done  out  of  dollars,  done  out  of  every  thin' — 
she  gives  right  along  the  line  from  morning  to 
night.  That  Mrs.  Pusey's  gotten  a  smart  new 
sewing-machine.  She  was  here  gassin'  for  an  hour 
one  day  last  week. " 

"Are  you  stopping  here?"  said  Bill. 

"On  and  off." 

"Don't  go  off!     Fanny,  you're  a  dandy  good 

girl. " 

"I  know  it,  Mr.  Din.  I  know  you're  some 
pleased  with  me,  too,  for  lookin'  after  the  widow 
and  defenceless.  She  believes  in  everythin',  Mr. 
Din,  and  blames  nobody  for  nothin'.  I  believe 
there'd  be  no  court-houses  if  Mrs.   Butt  was  a 


A  Birthday  with  Anne  299 

president.  She's  sorry  for  the  drunkards  and  she 
excuses  all.  She's  no  earthly  use  with  the  cane — 
she  keeps  it  locked  up " 

Fanny  stopped,  Bill  jerking  her  arm,  as  Mrs. 
Butt  came  into  the  house. 

"Many  happy  returns  of  the  day,  Mr.  Din. " 

"You've  been  enjoying  yourself  in  Alamanca, " 
he  said. 

It  was  getting  dark;  and  Anne,  remarking  on  the 
short  twilight,  lit  the  lamp,  and  put  it  on  the  table. 

The  lamp's  beams  were  pale  yet,  and  out  of 
doors  still  glimmered  through  the  window-panes. 

"I  don't  like  shutting  out  the  trees, "  she  added. 

"I've  never  had  a  birthday  since  I  was  a  kid  of 
nine,"  said  Bill.  ' ' Mother  took  me  to  Galma  then. 
She  went  to  see  a  cousin  who  had  the  grippe.  I 
spent  my  time  on  the  top  of  a  wood-pile  at  the  back 
of  the  house  and  I  killed  my  first  rattlesnake. ' 

"When  I  was  a  child, "  said  Anne,  "we  lived  in 
the  city.  The  birthday  I  remember  best  was  the 
one  in  which  my  mother  and  father  gave  me  a  plant, 
a  growing  plant,  that  I  could  water,  and  see  chang- 


300  The  Hunter 

ing  day  by  day.  I  never  slept  all  night  thinking 
about  that  poor  little  fern.  I  am  afraid  it  was 
killed  with  kindness." 

Fanny  was  just  helping  herself  to  a  piece  of  cake. 
She  looked  at  Bill. 

"It  don't  do  to  be  kind  in  this  world, "  said  Bill. 
"It's  a  hard  world,  and  it  needs  meeting  with 
hardness." 

"It  sure  does,"  said  Fanny;  "if  I  hadn't  been 
real  mad  with  Selena  Oyston  when  she  took  my 
cake  out  of  the  tin  can,  she'd  be  doing  it  to  this 
day. " 

"I  was  too  kind  to  that  fern,"  said  Anne,  "for 
it  did  die,  in  spite  of  love  and  care.  Still,  you 
can't  be  too  kind  to  people  in  trouble. " 

"It  depends  on  the  trouble,  and  how  it  came," 
said  Bill. 

"I  don't  think  it  does,"  said  Anne.  "They're 
needy  and  that's  enough.  " 

Fanny  took  another  piece  of  cake. 

Bill  Din  had  hung  his  coat  up  behind  the  door 
and  Anne,  looking  at  it,  said:  "Your  coat  has  been 


A  Birthday  with  Anne  301 

torn  in  a  machine,  Mr.  Din.  Would  it  be  too  kind 
of  me  to  darn  it  for  you  after  supper?  Let  me 
see,  what  does  it  depend  on  ?  the  trouble  and  how  it 
came.  If  you'll  tell  me  how  you  tore  your  coat  we 
can  see  if  I  can  be  justified  in  doing  it. " 

"You're  not  going  to  do  it,"  said  Bill.  "See 
here,  I'd  sooner  go  all  in  rags,  than  let  you  bother 
your  eyes  over  that  coat  of  mine.  There's  plenty 
of  folks  to  do  it  for  me.  Miss  Ramsey  comes  up 
to  the  ranch  every  week  and  she'll  do  it.  I  tore 
it  in  Alamanca  this  morning,  or  I  wouldn't  have  let 
you  see  it  like  that — you  may  be  pretty  sure  it 
was  done  too  late — I  didn't  want  to  miss  a  minute 
of  the  good  time  I'm  having  here. " 

1 '  And  I  don't  blame  him, ' '  said  Fanny.  ' '  Leave 
Miss  Ramsey  mend  it,  and  let  us  folks  play  cards. " 

So  the  cards  came  out,  and  the  evening  was  soon 
gone.  When  Bill  got  up  to  go,  he  took  the  coat  on 
his  arm. 

"You're  not  using  it,"  said  Anne.  "Leave  it 
and  I'll  mend  it." 

Bill  hesitated. 


302  The  Hunter 

"Please  do, "  said  Anne.  "It  will  be  a  pleasure 
to  mend  it. " 

"I'll  leave  it,"  said  Bill.  "Good-bye,  Mrs.  Butt, 
I'm  in  your  debt." 

And  he  went  out  quickly. 

"How  pleasant  it  has  been  to  see  Mr.  Din 
happy!"  said  Mrs.  Butt  as  she  gathered  the  cards 
up,  and  put  them  in  the  case.  "And  now,  Fanny, 
tell  your  mother  I  have  got  a  piano.  A  bargain — I 
have  got  it  from  Mr.  Sheridan." 

"He's  a  no-good!"  said  Fanny. 

Mrs.  Butt  was  placing  the  cards  on  the  book- 
shelf and  she  turned  round  quickly. 

"Don't  say  it,  Fanny.  Never,  in  my  house 
will  I  allow  any  one  to  call  a  fellow  creature,  no 
good!" 

I'm  sorry,  ma'am, "  said  Fanny. 
I  forgive  you, "  said  Anne,  "because  I  know  the 
motive  prompting  it  was  a  good  one.  You  want 
to  take  care  of  me,  Fanny,  you  are  such  a  little 
mother.  Perhaps  it  may  be  the  other  way  about. 
Never  mind,  we  love  each  other. " 


«  <  T'. 


<  < 


A  Birthday  with  Anne  303 

Fanny  flung  her  arms  around  Anne's  neck  and 
kissed  her  vehemently. 

"Mr.  Din,"  she  whispered,  "he's  a  good  man. " 

"Good  as  gold,"  said  Anne,  "I'm  sure  he'll  do 
everything  in  the  very  best  way.  What  about 
him?" 

"0,  he'll  be  mad  if  you  git  Sheridan's  piano," 
said  Fanny. 

Anne  kissed  the  little  girl. 

"What  a  dreadful  man  you  make  of  poor  Mr. 
Din ! "  she  said.  ' '  Now  I  think  better  of  him  than 
you  do;  I'm  not  frightened  of  him. " 

For  answer  Fanny  clung  to  Anne  and  kissed  her 
again  and  again. 
'And  Anne  laughed  at  her. 


CHAPTER  XLI 
anne's  piano 

THE  days  were  drawing  in,  so  that  dark  came 
about  eight  o'clock.  Bill  Din  could  just 
see  Mrs.  Butt  moving  about  in  the  room,  as  he 
passed  the  window.  She  had  not  lit  the  lamp  yet. 
He  intended  to  tie  up  at  the  nearest  fence  post, 
but  he  changed  his  mind.  He  rode  down  to  the 
Eden  place,  and  put  Gin-fly  in  the  stables,  return- 
ing slowly  on  foot. 

He  met  Fanny  coming  under  the  locust  trees. 

He  would  not  have  spoken,  but  she  stopped  him. 

"If  you're  agoin'  to  see  Mrs.  Butt,  I  may  as  well 

tell  you  she's  gotten  a  piano.     A  good  one.    A 

good  bargain.     She   ain't  been  done  this   time. 

Sheridan  ain't  done  her,   I'm  glad  to  say.     He 

wanted  the  money,  I  bet!" 

304 


Anne's  Piano  305 


<<  1 


Going  home?"  inquired  Bill. 

His  voice  was  cheerful,  but  Fanny  did  not  feel 
happy. 

"Sure,"  she  said. 

"Don't  come  back  till  I  fetch  my  horse!"  he 
said. 

"Right,  Mr.  Din,"  said  Fanny. 

"My!"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  ran  home. 
"I  feel  scared  for  Mrs.  Butt.  He's  a'goin'  to  say 
somethin',  I  believe." 

Din  went  slowly  onwards,  under  the  locust  trees, 
which  were  keeping  the  moon  from  getting  a  clear 
light  on  the  road.  Patches  of  shadow  and  light 
made  the  ground  look  as  though  it  were  a  decora- 
tive design. 

Bill  came  out  from  the  shadows  into  the  clear 
space  of  the  yard  in  front  of  Mrs.  Butt's  cottage, 
and  a  light  was  shining  now. 

He  rapped  on  the  door. 

A  flood  of  light  blinded  his  eyes  for  a  moment, 
and  then  he  saw  Anne,  smiling  at  him. 

O,  it  is  you, "  said  she,  opening  the  door  wide. 


<  <  1 


20 


306  The  Hunter 

Bill  came  in  without  saying  a  word,  and  began 
to  take  off  his  coat,  oblivious  of  any  recommenda- 
tion to  do  it. 

He  hung  it  up  behind  the  door  and  sat  down  on 
the  sofa. 

Anne  watched  him  in  amazement. 

"You're  very  graphic  to-night,  Mr.  Din,"  she 
said. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Bill.  "I  forgot.  Good- 
evening.     May  I  stay  a  while?" 

' '  Of  course  you  may.     Have  you  had  supper  ? ' 

"Thank  you — yes — sure!  Say,  you  ain't  agoin' 
to  play  that  musical  instrument,  are  you  ? ' 

"I  was  going  to  show  you  it. " 

"Don't!"  said  Bill  Din. 

Anne's  eyes  opened  wider,  as  she  looked  back 
at  the  pony  boy. 

She  closed  the  lid  of  the  piano  and  came  back 
to  the  table. 

"Mr.  Din,"  she  said,  "what  has  gone  wrong?" 

"In  the  future  tell  me  when  you  want  pianos!' 
said  Bill  Din. 


Anne's  Piano  307 

Anne  began  to  laugh. 

"I'll  tell  you  when  I  want  a  tea-cup — or  a  piece 
of  string,  or  a  new  hat.  I  see.  I've  to  tell  you 
when  I  make  an  acquaintance.  " 

"No — you  are  turning  it  off  with  nonsense.  I 
am  not  laughing.     Look  at  me. " 

"Yes,  I  am  looking,"  said  Anne.  "You  are 
frowning  out  of  all  good  looks.  I  wonder  you 
dare  to  ask  me  to  do  it,  with  such  an  uninviting 
expression." 

"Mrs.  Butt, "  said  Bill,  "do  you  believe  in  me?" 
No  one  could  help  it,  Mr.  Din." 
That's  good — that's  the  best  thing  you've  said 
to-night." 

Din  was  smiling  now,  and  he  got  up  from  the  sofa 
and  walked  to  the  table,  where  he  could  face  Mrs. 
Butt. 

"Supposin'  you  had  to  give  up  a  friend  made  in 
this  neighbourhood,  would  you  give  up  me?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"You  may  have  to. " 

"You  mean — "  Anne  paused. 


<  i 


Hi 


308  The  Hunter 


« < 


« < 


< « 


You  may  have  to,  "  repeated  Bill. 
If  I  buy  a  piano  without  your  leave  ?" 
You  may  have  to  give  up  an  acquaintance 
because  it  ain't  a  wise  one,"  persisted  Bill.     "I 
know  you'll  do  it.     I  know  you'll  be  wise,  Mrs. 
Butt.     Just  as  wise  as  you  are  good  and  kind ! " 

"Now  I'm  expecting  something  I  don't  like,' 
said  Anne.     ' '  Advice. ' ' 

"Sure.  You  mustn't  say  you  don't  like  it — 
that  ain't  wise.  The  world's  full  of  difficulties 
and  we've  got  to  look  after  one  another.  If  I 
ain't  able  to  protect  a  friend  like  you've  been,  I'd 
jist  as  soon  shoot  myself  dead  for  a  nin-can-poop. ' 

"And  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness.  Ten 
thousand  times.  Go  on  with  the  advice,  I'll 
listen." 

"I  want  you  to  cut  that  fellow  Sheridan. " 

"Why?" 

"He  ain't  fit  for  your  company. " 

"I  suppose  he's  drinking — or  taking  opium.  I 
think  it  is  a  drug  from  what  I  saw  of  him  yesterday. 
And  that  is  why  I  am  to  cut  him  ? ' ' 


Anne's  Piano  309 

"Ain't  that  enough,  without  more?" 

"It  is  enough  to  make  me  feel  very  sad, "  said 

« 

Anne.  "This  poor  countryman  of  mine  is  nearly 
an  outcast.  I  am  to  add  to  his  burden  by  making 
it  still  more  evident  to  him.     No,  I  cannot  do  it!" 

"You  may  have  to,"  said  Bill.  "Which  is 
worth  most— a  friend  or  an  acquaintance?  See 
what  economy  you  have.  You'll  give  up  a  friend 
you  own  you  value,  for  the  sake  of  an  acquaintance 
you  have  nothing  in  common  with.  The  recom- 
mendation of  friendship  to  you — is — what  is  it, 
Mrs.  Butt?" 

I  never  explain  those  things,  Mr.  Din. " 
I'll  tell  you.     The  misery  they're  in.     Misery. 
What  produces  misery?     Tell  me,  Mrs.  Butt,  what 
produces  misery. " 

"I  must  act  as  I  feel  best.  I've  told  you,  Mr. 
Din.  I  cannot  cut  that  poor  man.  No,  not  even 
for  you.  " 

Bill  was  preparing  for  a  fierce  outburst,  but 
these  last  words  produced  an  effect  on  him,  and  his 
voice  trembled  when  he  spoke  again. 


<  < 


<  i  T»1 


« < 


<  <  I 


3!o  The  Hunter 

''Mrs.  Butt,  I— I'm  done  out!     Good-night!" 

He  got  up  to  go. 

Anne  put  out  her  hands  to  stop  him. 

He  turned  round  again. 

"Mr.  Din.     Please  understand.  " 

"But  I'm  done  out, "  said  Bill.     "That's  truth. " 
You're  not,  you  know  it.  " 
Quit  this  friendship  then!" 

Anne  shook  her  head. 

"It  would  be  wicked,"  she  said,  "to  be  over- 
ruled by  you. " 

And  Bill  Din  took  his  coat  and  hat,  and  walked 
off  without  another  word. 

Anne  put  out  the  lamp  and  went  into  her  room. 

Fanny  Eden  came  running  back  to  the  cottage, 
but  as  the  lights  were  all  out,  she  went  home  again. 

And  the  moon  set,  clouds  came  up,  and  the 
darkness  was  complete.  Anne  could  not  even  see 
the  catalpa,  whose  leaves  were  tapping  on  her 
bedroom  window-pane. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

ANNE   BEFRIENDS   TROUBLE 

WHEN  Ambrose  Eden  arrived  at  the  ranch 
the  following  morning,  he  carried  a  letter 
in  his  hand. 

Bill  was  at  the  water-trough  with  Gin-fly,  but 
he  saw  that  the  boy  held  something  like  an  en- 
velope, so  he  called  out :  ' ' Eden !" 

Sir?"  said  Ambrose,  running  up  to  him. 
'What  have  you  got  there?" 
A  letter  for  you,  sir." 
Bill  took  it  from  him. 

"You  can  go  to  Alamanca  this  morning  about 
that  netting.  Be  quick.  We'll  want  you  this 
afternoon  in  the  hay  field. " 

"Sure,"  said  the  boy.  "I'll  be  there.  That 
there  letter  come  from  Mrs.  Butt,  sir.     She  give 

it  me  as  I  come  out  of  the  yard. " 

311 


<  < 


<  i- 


1  < 


312  The  Hunter 

Din  was  opening  it,  so  Ambrose  got  no  answer. 
It  was  read  in  haste,  but  afterwards  more  slowly. 

Dear  Mr.  Din, 

Don't  let  us  do  anything  in  haste.  I  am  willing 
to  listen  to  advice  from  a  true  friend,  and  will,  if 
convinced,  own  I  am  in  the  wrong.  Will  you  try  to 
convince  me?     I  don't  think  you  have  done  so  yet. 

Yours  sincerely, 

Anne  Butt. 

Bill's  face,  which  had  been  set  in  determinate 
lines,  relaxed  into  a  more  human  expression,  and 
for  the  rest  of  the  day  he  was  in  capital  good  hu- 
mour with  Lorraine  and  Ambrose. 

"My!"  said  the  little  boy  as  he  ran  home  in  the 
evening;  "if  the  school-marm  would  give  me  the 
chance  to  take  letters  every  day,  we'd  have  a 
bumming  good  time  at  the  ranch. " 

He  called  at  No.  10  before  he  went  home. 

"Marm,  I  give  the  note.  Anyhow,  I  think  he'll 
be  writin'  maybe.  But  I'll  be  through  the  yard 
in  the  mornin',  and  I'll  be  callin'  every  mornin'  to 
see  if  I  can  help  you  fill  the  wood-box. ' 

Anne  gave  him  a  piece  of  pie,  and  he  walked 


Anne  Befriends  Trouble         313 

slowly  under  the  locust  trees,  eating  it,  and  pon- 
dering over  the  wonderful  resources  of  life. 

Bill  came  over  to  No.  10  when  the  hayfield  was 
cleared,  leaving  Lorraine  cutting  grass  with  the 
machine.  It  was  one  of  those  evenings  when  the 
moon  grows  light  almost  before  night  is  established. 
The  wild  roses  were  showing  pink  everywhere,  and 
the  barley  was  changing  from  green  to  a  duller 
colour.  The  heavy- winged  moths  buzzed  in  Din's 
face,  and  from  the  ground  came  a  chorus  of  strin- 
gent voices — life  doing  its  best  to  give  thanks  for 
warmth  and  sunlight. 

Mrs.  Butt  had  a  visitor,  which  was  the  first 
drawback — a  boy  of  sixteen,  Rufus  Proctor,  who 
had  called  for  a  book  on  Natural  History;  but  at 
last  the  youth  slowly  decided  to  go,  and  Bill  was 
left  with  Anne. 

They  had  been  sitting  in  the  dark,  and  now  she 
lit  the  lamp  and  looked  at  him. 

"I  hear  you  got  my  letter,  Mr.  Din,"  she  said 
to  him,  sitting  down  at  the  table,  "and  I  see  you 
are  willing  to  have  patience  with  my  humour. 


314  The  Hunter 

What  is  life  for,  if  it  is  not  for  growing  up  into 
something  bigger,  like  all  the  trees  and  flowers? 
We  can't  do  it  without  taking  lessons.  Now  what 
have  you  to  teach  me?" 

Words  did  not  come  to  Bill  at  that  moment.  He 
kept  looking  at  Anne,  and  feeling  at  a  loss.  He 
managed  to  say :  ' '  In  a  while  I  can  tell  you.  Say, 
I've  enjoyed  myself  to-day.  That  was  a  mighty 
kind  letter!" 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Anne.     "I  meant  it,  too.' 

Bill  looked  at  her.  He  had  no  idea  of  what  he 
was  to  say  next,  but  time  was  going,  and  the 
opportunity  must  not  be  missed,  so  he  plunged 
into  the  subject  again. 

"What  I  said  to  you  last  night  was  for  your 
good,  Mrs.  Butt." 

"No  one  understands  that  better  than  me,  Mr. 
Din.  I  mean  no  one  could  rely  more  on  your 
good  intentions. " 

"That  helps  some.  I  can  try  to  tell  you 
what  I  mean.  Mrs.  Butt,  give  me  time  and  a 
chance.      There's    a  wonderful    cave    'bout   ten 


« ( 


«( 


Anne  Befriends  Trouble         315 

miles  from  here.     Will  you  go  riding  with  me  on 
Sunday?" 

I  should  like  to  go, "  said  Anne. 
'Right.  I'll  fix  it  up.  If  the  weather  changes —  " 
Bill  paused,  and  a  thoughtful  look  came  over  his 
face — "We'll  plan  something  instead.     Can  I  come 
up  to-morrow  night?" 

"Any  time  you  like,  Mr.  Din." 

Bill  Din  put  both  hands  on  the  edge  of  the  table 
at  which  he  was  sitting,  and  leaned  forward,  so 
that  he  could  see  Mrs.  Butt's  eyes. 

1 '  Is  there  any  one  besides  me  who  can  come  here 
any  time?"  he  said. 

"Everybody,"  said  Anne. 

Bill  pushed  his  chair  back,  so  that  it  made  a 
shrill  jar  throughout  the  room.  His  hands  closed. 
He  turned  his  eyes  on  the  window. 

"I'm  not  like  a  castle  with  a  moat  around,' 
said  Anne.     "We've  outlived  those  gloomy  days. 
There  are  all  sorts  of  doors  into  my  house,  but 
everybody's  welcome  who  wants  to  come.     Some 
bring  me  more  happiness  than  others,  of  course!" 


316  The  Hunter 

Bill's  head  took  a  slight  turn  towards  Mrs.  Butt, 
so  she  continued:  "Much  more  happiness,  of 
course." 

And  Bill  looked  at  her  again. 

"Mrs.  Butt,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  your  age, 
but  you  ain't  much  younger  than  me,  I  bet.  Life 
has  made  me  twenty  years  older  though.  Direc- 
tion is  what  you  want ! " 

4 'Is  it?"  said  Anne. 

"Sure — every  time!  That's  all  you  want. 
Will  you  let  me  tell  you  when  you  want  direction  ? " 

"Yes — tell  me  now." 

"Sheridan's  best  out,  then." 

"I  can't  think  so, "  said  Anne. 

Bill  and  Anne  stood  looking  at  one  another,  and 
a  knock  came  at  the  door. 

It  was  a  troubled  knock  to  Anne's  ears,  and  she 
grew  paler  as  she  noted  it.  Bill  Din  was  so  busy 
thinking  what  she  had  just  said  to  him,  that  he 
had  not  even  heard  it. 

Anne  went  to  the  door  and  saw  Spen. 

"Mrs.  Butt,  "  he  said,  "will  you  let  me  come  in 


Anne  Befriends  Trouble         317 

and  talk  to  you?  There's  been  a  fight,  and  Sheri- 
dan's hit — I  feel  I'll  go  mad.     Is  any  one  in?" 

"There's  Mr.  Din." 

"Get  him  away,  will  you,  Mrs.  Butt,  because  we 
want  you  in  Alamanca. " 

"Wait,"  said  Anne. 

Spen  paused,  waiting,  and  looking  at  her.  She 
stood  in  the  doorway,  her  eyes  widely  opened. 
She  went  back  into  the  house.  Bill  was  standing 
near  the  door  now. 

"Mr.  Din,"  she  said. 

There  was  no  answer  from  Bill. 

"There's  a  man  in  trouble — trouble  can't  wait. 
Can  you  come  again?" 

Bill  Din  shook  his  head. 

Anne  clasped  her  hands  together. 

Bill  glanced  at  the  door,  and  then  he  came  to  her 
and  whispered  in  her  ear:  "Anne,  Anne!  Trouble! 
I'm  in  trouble!" 

Anne  looked  at  him,  and  as  swiftly  looked  away. 

"You  must  go,  Mr.  Din,"  she  said  coldly.  "I 
wish  you  to  go.  " 


318  The  Hunter 

"Anne/'  he  whispered. 

"Go!"  said  Anne. 

Bill  Din  stood  for  a  minute,  thinking.  Then, 
without  looking  at  Mrs.  Butt,  he  came  out  into  the 
porch. 

The  man  was  nowhere  in  sight. 

Bill  walked  away. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 


"the  mismanagement  of  man" 


HALF  an  hour  later,  Spen  had  driven  Mrs. 
Butt  into  Alamanca  Creek. 

Main  Street  was  not  deserted,  and  there  was  a 
crowd  on  the  porch  of  the  "Green-bank,"  but 
Spen  took  Anne  straight  to  Sheridan's  rooms. 

"I  ain't  a  lover  of  Sheridan, "  he  said,  "but  the 
poor  fellow's  been  tampered  with  beyond  all  sense. 
There's  a  man  in  this  town  called  Johnnie  Holmes. 
He  borrowed  a  hundred  dollars  from  the  English- 
man, and  there  was  somethin'  said  about  gittin' 
it  put  down  in  black  and  white.  Anyway,  it 
ain't  been  done.  Wal,  it  seems  that  Holmes  let 
him  have  ten  dollars  last  week,  and  now  he's  been 
comin'  on  Sheridan  for  the  dough — Sheridan  got 
mad,  and  brought  up  the  fac'  of  the  borrowed 

hundred,  but  Holmes  denied  it — swore  he  wouldn't 

319 


32o  The  Hunter 

pay  a  cent  of  it,  swore  he'd  paid  last  month !  Now, 
he  ain't  never  done  such  a  thing — that  was  a 
manufactured  story  in  a  factory  Holmes  keeps  full 
of  such  goods,  ready  to  dispose  of  to  his  own  ad- 
vantage. Wal,  the  result  of  that  lie  was  a  scrim- 
mage. Sheridan  got  up  a  knife  and  was  striking 
at  Holmes,  but  Holmes  had  gotten  the  advantage 
and  he  threw  up  Sheridan's  arm.  Sheridan  got 
cut.  He  says  Holmes  don'  it.  Holmes  says  Sheri- 
dan don'  it.  There  was  a  scrap,  anyhow.  Folks 
came  in  and  Holmes  was  dragged  out.  Sheridan's 
gone  mad.  He's  raving  like  a  lunatic.  They're 
a'talkin'  of  an  asylum.  I  was  in  the  room,  lookin' 
at  the  poor  figure  of  what  was  once  a  man,  and  I 
thought  of  you. " 

So  saying  Spen  opened  the  door  of  Sheridan's 
rooms,  and  entered,  followed  by  Mrs.  Butt. 

There  were  two  people  there,  the  remnant  of 
a  dispersed  crowd.  Sheridan  was  sitting  in  a 
Morris  chair,  while  a  woman  bound  up  his  arm. 
His  coat  was  on  the  floor,  where  there  lay  a  broken 
chair  and  a  smashed  glass. 


"The  Mismanagement  of  Man"   321 

A  policeman  stood  in  the  window  watching  the 
two  of  them.  Sheridan's  eyes  were  blood-shot 
and  his  face  was  like  parchment.  The  woman's 
hands  were  occupied  with  her  work,  and  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  bandage. 

"I've  brought  a  friend,"  said  Spen. 

Sheridan  raised  his  eyes  but  he  said  nothing. 
The  woman  got  up  from  her  work  and  went  to 
Mrs.  Butt. 

"You  can't  be  too  careful,  ma'am.  Holmes  is 
bein'  watched,  but  if  the  two  of  them  got  together 
again  they  would  mean  murder.  I'll  go  now,  if 
you  don't  mind,  for  I've  left  my  children  in 
bed. " 

Anne  took  off  her  gloves  and  came  further  into 
the  room. 

Sheridan  spoke.  "Good  evening,  Mrs.  Butt. 
Sorry  this  is  no  night  for  making  you  feel  happy. 
Who  is  that  devil  standing  in  the  window?" 

The  policeman  came  away  and  went  outside  the 
door. 

"Those  sort  of  people  don't  like  to  be  named," 


21 


322  The  Hunter 

said  Sheridan.  ' '  I  named  him  and  he  fled.  Some- 
body give  Mrs.  Butt  a  chair.  She's  come  to  see 
the  play.  I  don't  mind  her  in  the  least.  She's 
my  friend." 

"Mad  as  a  Hottentot,"  said  Spen  in  a  whisper 
to  Mrs.  Butt. 

"That's  Spen  whispering,"  said  Sheridan.  "I've 
known  him  for  a  long  time,  and  he's  always  running 
about.  He  makes  me  tired  to  death.  Death? 
Death  ?  I  ought  to  have  met  my  death  a  long  while 
ago.  I  was  once  young — once  green — once  callow. 
That  was  the  time  when  I  was  crammed  with 
knowledge.  Mrs.  Butt  you  look  as  if  you  were 
tired.  Don't  let  Spen  trouble  you.  I  say,  would 
some  one  mind  calling  my  mother?" 

"I'll  do  it, "  said  Anne,  coming  and  sitting  down 
beside  him. 

"Ah,  you'll  call  a  long  time.  She's  gone,  Mrs. 
Butt.  Happily  gone!  You've  got  a  mother's 
face,  though!  You  made  me  think  of  her  as  you 
looked  at  me.  You  take  me  there.  I  think  I 
shall  sleep.     Good-night ! ' ' 


"The  Mismanagement  of  Man"    323 

Anne,  leaving  him  sleeping,  came  out  to  Spen 
who  was  standing  on  the  porch. 

"What  a  life!"  said  the  young  man. 

"What  a  world!"  said  Anne. 

"It  ain't  the  world,  but  the  man,"  said  Spen. 

"The  mismanagement  of  man!"  said  Anne. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

ANNE  LIKES  HER   LETTER 

AMBROSE  EDEN  called  at  No.  10  about  six 
o'clock  next  morning. 

Mrs.  Butt  was  rather  absent-minded,  and  did 
not  even  thank  him  for  getting  the  wood  into  the 
wood-box.  Seeing  nothing  was  coming  for  his 
care,  Ambrose  made  a  bee-line  for  the  ranch. 

Bill  Din  was  mowing.  Ambrose  saw  him  wave, 
so  he  walked  right  up  to  the  fence  near  which  his 
master  would  presently  appear  with  his  machine. 
It  was  pleasant  standing  motionless  on  a  fine  day, 
looking  at  the  butterflies  alighting  on  the  morning- 
glories.  Ambrose  felt  the  sun  on  the  tips  of  his 
ears,  and  glowed  with  joy  to  idle  the  mmute  in 
peace.     Presently  the  horses  appeared,  then  Bill, 

in  the  act  of  pulling  up. 

324 


Anne  Likes  Her  Letter  325 

"I  ain't  gotten  a  letter,"  said  Ambrose,  "but  I 
seen  you  wave." 

"Here,"  said  Bill.  "Take  this  letter  to  Mrs. 
Butt,  and  wait  for  an  answer.  Mind  you  don't 
come  off  without  the  answer." 

"Sure,"  said  Ambrose,  his  spirits  rising  still 
higher.  He  found  letter  carrying  the  most  attrac- 
tive occupation  of  his  experience,  for  it  held  honey 
and  pie  and  jam,  and  other  delights,  all  along 
the  way — not  to  speak  of  power,  knowledge,  and 
human  interest  to  entertain  the  mind. 

He  raced  off,  but  before  he  got  out  of  sight 
Lorraine  called  him:  "I  want  you,"  he  said. 

"Can't  come,"  said  Ambrose.     "I'm  busy!" 

And  he  was  away  through  the  fence,  and  down 
the  hill  at  a  great  rate. 

"It'll  be  my  turn  next,"  said  Toad.  "Bill 
must  make  things  real  smooth  for  me,  when 
my  turn  comes,  or  I'll  sure  let  him  remember 
this!" 

Ambrose's  feet,  bare  to  the  sun,  were  soon 
through  the  fields,  and  out  on  the  road.     Keep- 


326  The  Hunter 

ing  in  the  grass,  he  was  at  the  schoolhouse 
directly. 

Mrs.  Butt  was  bringing  Whitefoot  into  the  yard, 
petting  the  horse,  and  rubbing  its  nose. 

Ambrose  did  not  speak.  He  put  the  letter  into 
her  hand,  turned  away,  and  walked  under  the 
locust  trees. 

Mrs.  Butt  looked  surprised  to  get  it. 

Fanny  was  watching  from  the  doorway. 

She  came  up:  "I'll  take  care  of  Whitefoot, 
Mrs.  Butt,"  she  said. 

Anne  went  into  the  house  with  the  letter,  opened 
it,  and  waited  a  moment. 

By  and  by  she  began  to  read,  and  her  colour  rose 
more  and  more,  until  a  vivid  blush  was  on  her 
cheek,  but  her  expression  which  had  been  one  of 
apprehension  and  doubt,  melted  into  a  look  of 
happiness. 

She  read  as  follows : 

Dear  Mrs.  Butt, 

Forgive  me  for  my  temper  last  night.     It  is  one 
of  my  troubles.     I  sure  wish  I  could  give  it  into  your 


Anne  Likes  Her  Letter  327 

care,  it  is  more  than  I  can  manage,  single  handed. 
Can  I  come  up  to-night?  I've  gotten  troubles  of 
every  kind,  and  with  your  directions  something  might 
be  done.     Trouble  can't  wait. 

Faithfully  yours, 

Bill  Din. 

Anne  looked  for  pen  and  ink  and  wrote  a  reply  in 
two  minutes. 

Dear  Mr.  Din, 

What  is  there  to  forgive?    I  shall  look  for  you 
to-night. 

Yours  sincerely, 

Anne  Butt. 

Ambrose  was  in  the  corn-patch,  and  was  called 
for  by  his  sister. 

He  came  back  eagerly. 

Mrs.  Butt  handed  him  a  large  piece  of  lemon  pie, 
and  gave  him  the  letter. 

He  ran  off  in  an  outburst  of  gleeful  spirits. 


CHAPTER    XLV 

ANNE'S  DREAM 

WHEN  Bill  Din  came  into  Anne's  living- 
room,  he  was  prepared  to  find  someone 
besides  herself. 

There  was  no  one  but  herself. 

Anne  was  sitting  by  the  window.  It  was  wide 
open.  The  catalpa  leaves  were  rustling  in  a 
pleasant  south  wind  and  the  stars  were  just 
beginning  to  show  themselves. 

There  was  a  chair  beside  Anne. 

It  was  vacant. 

Bill  took  it. 

"Should  we  light  up?"  she  asked  him. 

"Are  we  in  the  dark?"  asked  Bill. 

Silence  followed  until  Anne  broke  it  by  saying : 
I've  stopped  off  all  visitors  to-night. " 

"For  my  trouble?"  asked  Bill. 

"For  you, "  said  Anne. 

328 


t  l  T> 


Anne's  Dream  329 

' '  Does  the  man  come  off  best  who  has  the  most 
trouble?  I  am  surely  prepared  to  say  that  I  am 
that  man!"  said  Bill. 

"I  am  sorry  about  your  trouble.  I'd  help  you 
if  I  could  do  it,  but  I'm  afraid  I  can't. " 

"You  have  helped  me. " 

"Unconsciously,  perhaps.     You  see " 

"See  what?" 

1 '  I  can't  give  you  what  would  make  you  happy — 
I  would  if  I  could.  I  don't  know  any  one  I'd  sooner 
give  happiness  to — but  I'm  not  a  goddess  or  a 
fairy,  who  can  dispense  favours  to  the  deserving. 
I  often  think  that  the — the  most  stalwart  people 
come  off  with  loss — because — perhaps — why,  Mr. 
Din,  you're  never  telling  me  your  trouble,  and 
time  is  going!" 

"Your  voice  and  your  words  help  me,"  said 
Bill.     "Go  on  talking." 

"I  hope  that  the  best  will  not  pass  you  by. 
Perhaps  it  appears  to  have  done  so.  Look  ahead, 
Mr.  Din.  There  may  be  something  better  coming 
to  you. " 


330  The  Hunter 

Bill  was  silent. 

Anne  burst  out  suddenly:  "O,  how  cruel  of  me 
to  say  so  to  a  disappointed  man — I  know  nothing 
can  make  up  to  you!'' 

"You  could  do  it, "  said  Bill. 

"Me?"  she  asked. 

"I  love  you,  Anne.     It  is  you  I  love. " 

"No!"  said  Anne. 

Bill  stared  at  her. 

"I've  told  you  day  by  day, "  he  said. 

"I  cannot  bear  to  hear  you  say  it — you  are 
spoiling  yourself ,  Mr.  Din!" 

Bill's  face  changed.  "How?  Spoil?  Go  on, 
and  tell  me  why  when  I  ask  you  to  be  my  wife,  you 
should  say  what  you  do!" 

' '  Ah, ' '  said  Anne.  ' '  I  am  sorry  I  ever  asked  you 
to  my  house,  or  ever  looked  at  you. " 

"But  you  did  look  at  me,  you  did  comfort  me, 
you  did  love  me,  Anne!  Though  you  tell  me  all 
day  and  night  that  you  didn't  love  me,  I  ain't 
a'goin'  to  believe  it. " 

"But  it  was  sympathy, "  said  Anne. 


Anne's  Dream  331 

"Sympathy!"  said  Bill.  "God  save  me  from 
sympathy,  then!" 

"I  could  never  have  dreamed  it  was  you  speak- 
ing," said  Anne. 

"Dream?  What  did  you  dream?"  said  Bill. 
He  could  scarcely  see  her  face. 

When  she  spoke  next,  her  voice  was  cold. 

"I  dreamt  of  constancy, "  she  said. 

"To  what?    To  a  mask?    To  a  shadow?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"There  ain't  any  word  for  it.  I  say  there  ain't 
anythin'  in  it.     Nothin'  to  be  true  to,  in  a  mask!" 

* '  Is  that  how  you  talk  of  the  woman  you  loved  ? " 
said  Anne. 

Bill  Din  put  his  hands  on  the  arms  of  Mrs. 
Butt's  chair,  and  looking  into  her  face,  he  said: 
"You  are  an  understanding,  kind  woman,  but  you 
ain't  able  to  understand  me.  Surely  the  woman 
that  saw  in  the  beginning,  could  see  in  the  end. 
Here's  life — you  alone,  me  alone — both  have 
suffered — I  look  to  you  for  comfort — I  look — I 
look — I  drink  of  comfort — I  hope  I  give  you  some 


332  The  Hunter 

back.  Then  this  which  comes  of  it  is  more  than 
the  other  feeling — bigger — better — truer!  And 
then — here  comes  the  thought  to  freeze  your  blood 
in  your  veins — the  woman  loves  a  dream  better 
than  the  man." 

"You  put  it  cruelly,  Mr.  Din — and  say  every- 
thing vehemently.  But  you  should  have  been 
true  to  yourself — and  not  come  away  from — 
yourself!" 

"Was  that  bein'  true  to  myself,  to  hold  to  some- 
thin'  that's  gone  ?  I '11  surely  make  no  words  about 
good-bye.  I've  spoilt  your  dreams — maybe  that's 
the  best  thing  I  done  yet.  I  don't  ask  you  to 
build  them  up  again.  When  next  you  sympathize 
with  a  poor  man,  take  him  as  he  is,  Anne — and 
comfort  him  altogether ! ' ' 

Bill  Din  went  out  of  the  house,  shutting  the 
outer  door  sharply. 

Anne  sat  for  a  while  in  the  darkness.  Then  she 
lit  a  lamp,  and  got  out  some  books.  She  wandered 
idly  through  their  pages. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

GIN-FLY  AND  WHITEFOOT 

BILL  looked  about  him;  he  was  riding  alone, 
nowadays. 

Gin-fly  was  still  climbing  slowly,  feeling  the 
meditative  mood  of  the  man. 

"It  don't  matter  what  it  is, — the  fac'  that  counts 
is  the  fac'  that  I'm  to  begin  over. " 

Gin-fly  began  to  trot,  and  from  that,  put  out 
more  swiftly  still,  until  man  and  horse  were  going 
along  at  a  great  pace. 

A  long  way  in  front  of  him,  the  railway  crossed 
the  road,  and  Bill  Din  could  see  someone  riding 
ahead  of  him,  towards  the  rails. 

"Anne,"  he  muttered. 

He  thought  to  himself :     ' '  If  a  train  should  come 

along  about  now,  come  real  slow,  I  should  ride  up 

to  her." 

333 


334  The  Hunter 

Anne  was  going  slowly  and  had  forgotten  the 
railway. 

Being  pre-occupied,  she  rode  steadily  forward, 
without  slackening  speed  as  she  drew  near,  until 
Whitefoot  was  almost  on  the  cars.  It  was  an 
express. 

Bill  saw  Anne  pull  up  suddenly  and  the  horse 
reared.  She  kept  the  mare  well  in  hand  until  the 
train  had  gone  dashing  by,  then  unaccountably 
losing  her  nerve,  she  let  Whitefoot  feel  her 
fears. 

The  horse  plunged,  and  set  off  like  a  mad  thing. 

Bill  came  riding  after  her,  but  Whitefoot  had 
got  a  good  start,  and  a  curve  in  the  road  put  them 
out  of  his  sight. 

Gin-fly  always  at  one  with  her  master,  did  her 
best,  and  soon  they  were  in  sight  of  the  runaway 
mare  again. 

And  now  Bill  leaned  forward  in  the  saddle,  his 
coaxing  voice  acting  as  a  spur  to  Gin-fly's  tender 
ear — the  good  horse  flew  under  a  caress  of  love, 
feeling  delight  in  the  faith  that  was  guiding  her. 


Gin-Fly  and  Whitefoot  335 

And  so  they  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  White- 
foot. 

Things  were  reeling  to  Anne.  The  air  was  rush- 
ing like  a  hurricane  in  her  ears.  Whitefoot,  hear- 
ing another  horse  behind  her,  swerved  violently, 
and  flung  the  rider  from  the  saddle,  bolting  again 
with  straining  ears  and  bleating  sides.  Gin-fly 
was  as  ready  for  the  emergency  as  her  master's 
arm.  She  leapt  the  intervening  distance.  Anne 
was  caught  violently  by  Bill  Din,  and  Gin-fly 
was  pulled  up  with  a  thud. 

Bill  had  dismounted. 

Anne's  lips  were  blue,  and  her  eyes  glazed.  He 
wondered  if  there  was  water  to  be  got  anywhere. 

He  made  her  sit  down  on  the  bank  and  fanned 
her. 

She  looked  at  him  once  or  twice  unknowingly, 
and  her  teeth  began  to  chatter — Bill  rubbed  her 
hands,  until  some  colour  came  into  the  greyness  of 
her  face. 

She  sighed  and  shut  her  eyes,  but  when  she 
opened  them  again,  she  saw  Bill  Din. 


it 


il 


336  The  Hunter 

"You  ain't  fit  to  ride  alone, "  said  Bill. 

Gin-fly  neighed. 

Anne  sighed  again,  and  put  her  hands  to  her  hair 
to  see  if  all  was  straight. 

Where  is  my  hat?"  she  said. 
Back  yonder, "  said  Bill.     "  How  did  you  come 
to  lose  your  nerve,  seem'  you'd  let  the  express  git 
by?    You  held  on  through  the  worst — and  you 
give  in  at  the  victory  point.     'Twas  sure  a  pity!' 

11  That's  my  hat-pin — in  the  dust.  I  don't  want 
it,  if  my  hat's  gone, "  said  Anne. 

"I  ain't  gotten  any  water  to  sprinkle  on  you,' 
said  Bill.     "You'll  ride  on  Gin-fly.     Would  you 
mind  if  I  took  you  up  in  front  of  me?     We'd  git 
along  with  more  speed. " 

"Just  exactly  what  you  think  best, "  said  Anne. 

Bill  thought  she  was  in  a  beautiful  mood. 

And  so  they  rode  away  together. 

Bill  took  her  to  the  nearest  farm,  where  a  kind 
Dutch  woman  came  out  to  meet  them,  spreading 
out  generous  arms,  saying:  "But  vot  you  haf 
had  an  accident!     Kom'  in!" 


Gin-Fly  and  Whitefoot  337 

She  took  every  care  of  Anne,  and  gave  refresh- 
ment to  both  the  travellers.  When  it  came  time 
to  go,  she  lent  Anne  a  hat. 

It  was  a  large  black-brimmed  straw,  with  a  pink 
feather  in  it. 

The  Dutchman  offered  to  lend  another  horse. 

Bill  Din  said  there  was  no  need  for  it. 

The  Dutchman  said  nothing. 

When  Anne  came  into  the  clear,  evening  air,  and 
saw  the  stars  in  the  flrmanent  sparkling  vividly 
or,  glowing  like  flame,  in  the  blue  depths  of  night, 
she  grew  buoyant. 

11  Glorious ! "  she  said. 

Bill  Din  heard  it,  as  he  talked  to  the  Dutchman. 

And  when  the  journey  home  had  begun,  and 
they  had  ridden  out  of  the  yard,  they  stopped 
talking. 

They  rode  under  trees,  and  out  into  open  spaces, 
and  down  again  into  damp  hollows,  under  those 
frosty  stars,  drinking  in  that  heavenly  air. 

It  was  sad  to  get  to  the  journey's  end. 

Bill  reluctantly  helped  her  to  dismount  at  No.  10. 


33%  The  Hunter 

11 0, "  said  Anne.  "  I  have  been  happy  to-night. ' 

"What?"  cried  Bill  eagerly,  leaning  forward  for 
more. 

"You  comfort  me,"  she  said. 

Whitefoot  had  run  straight  home,  so  Bill  Din 
went  down  to  the  farm  to  reassure  the  Eden  family. 

He  rode  home  across  the  prairie,  full  of  plans  for 
next  Sunday. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 
"see  what  i  done!" 

ANNE  was  expecting  to  see  Bill  any  minute. 
She  put  a  letter  on  the  window  sill,  when  she 
heard  him  ride  into  the  yard,  but  when  the  door 
burst  open  and  he  came  in  she  knew  by  his  face 
that  he  was  very  upset. 
"Anne,"  he  said. 
"What  has  happened?"  she  cried. 
I've  ruined  the  lives  of  two  of  my  friends. " 
What  do  you  mean,  Bill?     Come  in  and  tell 


<<  T». 


(< 


me  I 
<< 


!" 


It  is  the  hunter  from  Ari-wa-kis,  who  went 
away  this  spring,  with  Silvia  Lake — you  know  they 
married  suddenly?" 

Yes,  yes,"  said  Anne.    "  I  know  all  about  her." 
Louis  Buttress  is  lost  and  Silvia  is  at  Ari-wa- 
kis — separated  from  him — through  me!" 

339 


ti 


tt 


34°  The  Hunter 

"How  could  that  be?" 

"I've  known  Silvia  since  she  was  a  kid  of  five — 
and  I  knew  she  loved  Louis  Buttress.  I  pushed 
the  matter,  and  at  my  heart  I  knew  it  was  all 
Buttress  she  cared  for!  But  she  promised  me, 
Anne." 

"Ah,  yes!" 

"And  when  she  was  in  Chicago,  Buttress  went 
to  see  her  and  he  married  her.  I  knew  he  had  won 
her  heart — I  knew  it — but  she  daren't  tell  him  and 
she  daren't  tell  me  that  she'd  made  a  mistake — 
and  she  married  without  telling  either  of  us!" 

"I  see." 

"And  I — I  ain't  used  to  curbing  myself — never 
in  this  world  have  I  done  it.  I've  gone  mad  in- 
stead and  got  my  way.  It  was  my  way  I  wanted — 
my  partner  told  me  off  all  right — but  I  scorned 
him — I  sure  scorned  all  the  good  that  come  near 
me.  I  scorned  every  thin',  from  the  God  that 
created  me  to  the  worm  at  my  feet — I  seen  I  could 
punish  her " 

"  You  wanted  to  punish  her " 


"See  What  I  Donel"  341 

"Give  me  up,  Anne!     See  what  I  am!" 

"Bill!" 

"I  wanted  her  to  feel  pain,  and  I  knew  how — I 
knew  how  better'n  Buttress  did!  Buttress  loved 
her,  but  it  ain't  the  same  thing  as  knowin'  a  char- 
acter !  I  seen  the  way.  It  would  be  through  fear 
and  through  Buttress.  I  went  after  them  into  the 
woods,  and  done  it  all — done  it  all  perfect  as  a 
puzzle  when  you  know  how  it  works!  I  can  see 
Silvia's  face  desperate — I  was  proud  of  it!  Then 
I  went  on  to  Buttress,  and  I  raked  him  up  with  it, 
knowin'  that  he  was  on  new  ground,  and  wouldn't 
act  like  a  man  who  understood  girls — and  then  I 
left  'em — left  'em — in  the  precipice  down  which 
I'd  flung  'em!  Next  thing  I  heard  she  was  at  Ari- 
wa-kis — by  herself ! ' ' 

Bill  put  out  his  hands  to  Mrs.  Butt. 

"Anne,  Anne,  what  can  I  do." 

"Tell  me  what  you've  heard  about  Buttress!' 

"Read  this  paragraph,"  said  Bill. 

His  fingers  were  trembling  so  with  excitement 
that  he  could  not  pull  the  newspaper  from  his 


342  The  Hunter 

pocket.  Anne  did  it  for  him,  and  as  she  read, 
Bill's  fingers  went  in  and  out  of  this  same  pocket, 
finding  oats  which  he  scattered  nervously  on  the 
floor. 

Anne  read : 

A  tragedy  in  the  making  of  Hal  Robbs's  huge  book 
upon  the  Indian,  has  come  out  of  an  apparently  simple 
event.  Robbs's  two  experts,  Louis  Buttress,  a  trapper 
from  the  Northern  Interior  of  the  States,  and  John 
D.  Scale,  New  York,  were  engaged  in  communicating 
with  some  Indians  encamped  on  the  brink  of  a  river. 
Beyond  the  fact  that  the  two  men  failed  to  put  in  an 
appearance  at  the  camp — and  that  there  is  now  no 
clue  of  them — nothing  can  be  made  of  the  mystery. 
Robbs  has  spared  no  pains  to  unravel  the  fate  of  two 
of  his  eleven  men — foul  play  is  suspected.  To  such 
hazards  do  men  charge  their  lives  in  the  procuring  of 
history  for  the  future  good  of  the  race. 

Anne  threw  the  paper  on  the  floor. 

"News  for  filling,  that's  all!  If  you'll  go  to 
Buttress,  I'll  go  to  Silvia!" 

"You  speak  as  if  you  saw  him !     For  God's  sake, 

Anne,  tell  me  if  you  hope?" 

"I  do — I  see  great  hope " 

"Buttress's  like  will  never  be  seen  again  on  Ari- 


( ( 


«( I 


"See  What  I  Done!"  343 

wa-kis  shores.     And  she  was  his  joy — I've  killed 
their  joy!" 

Bill,  act!    You  can  go  to  the  Indians!" 
Sure,  I  can  go  to  the  Indians, "  he  said. 

He  stood  staring  out  of  the  window,  from  whence 
came  the  sounds  of  a  horse's  impatient  hoofs. 

"See  what  I  done!"  he  said  again,  suddenly. 
"See  what  I  am!" 

"I'm  afraid  Silvia  will  have  seen  the  paper — I'll 
ride  over  at  once, "  said  Anne. 

"You  will?"  said  Bill.  "Then  I'll  go  north. 
Dead  or  alive  I'll  find  Louis  Buttress!  I'll  bring 
him  home." 

Bill  Din  went  out,  and  mounting  Gin-fly  he  rode 
away.  Anne  looked  out  on  to  the  calm  Sunday 
morning.     Everything  was  wrapped  in  sunshine. 

And  it  was  with  a  shiver  of  dread,  that  she  went 
up  to  the  Eden  place  for  Star. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 

THE  INDIAN  AND  THE  PONY  BOY 

DIN  was  on  the  brink  of  a  wide  river  and  the 
woods  were  westward.  The  Indian,  en- 
camped in  a  perfect  spot,  under  some  bog  willow 
trees,  was  sitting  watching  the  water,  in  pensive 
silence. 

The  squaw,  some  yards  away,  was  making 
baskets  with  skilful  fingers. 

Din  came  up  with  caution,  but  sat  down  by  the 
man  and  said :  ' '  White  man  still  here  ?  Buttress  ? ' ' 

The  Indian  gave  him  a  look  and  said:  "But- 
tress big  man — him  straight. " 

1 '  Sure, ' '  said  Din  thoughtfully.  ' '  Good  hunter, 
too." 

The  Indian,  who  was  as  grave  as  the  woods  and 
rivers  where  he  was  living,  suddenly  broke  into  a 
smile,  and  his  squaw's  face  illumined  with  the  same 

344 


The  Indian  and  the  Pony  Boy    345 

shining  gladness  as  she  caught  her  lord's  pleasure. 

"Him  great  hunter,"  said  the  Indian.  "Great 
hunter  Louis — Indian  loves  him. " 

Din  nodded:  "Great  hunter  all  alone,"  he  said, 
and  then  the  squaw  looked  up  sharply. 

The  Indian  gazed  at  his  wife  as  he  said: 

"Hunter  shoot  big  game.  No  one  touch  him — 
no  one  track  him — so!" 

The  squaw's  stealthy  looks  increased.  Every- 
thing she  could  spare  from  the  basket  went  to  the 
study  of  Din. 

The  Indian,  whose  feet  were  bare,  began  to  look 
in  a  box  for  a  pair  of  shoes,  which  he  proceeded  to 
put  carefully  on  his  feet. 

"Indian  go  now — say  farewell  to  white  man." 

The  squaw,  who  was  watching  her  husband's 
face,  began  to  put  away  her  work.  She  had 
stopped  looking  at  Din. 

The  pony  boy  knew  that  confidence  was  going, 
and  searched  about  in  his  mind  for  something  to 
restore  it. 

Din  rolled  over  on  his  side,  and  gazing  deeply 


346  The  Hunter 

into  the  Indian's  eyes,  he  said  slowly:  "Indian 
fear  nothing !     Hunter — safe. " 

The  Indian  stretched  out  his  hand,  saying: 
1 '  Blue-grass  friends  with  White  Man.  Him  trusts. 
Him  see  White  Man's  heart  pretty  good." 

And  the  squaw  smiled  and  began  her  work  again 
and  before  Din  could  let  the  words  out,  the  Indian 
had  said:  "Blue-grass  take  White  Man  in  the 
morning,  while  ground  still  wet.  Show  him  hun- 
ter— not  good  day — all  dark  trail.  Blue-grass  no 
use — life  no  good. " 

And  then  Blue-grass  grew  quiet,  as  though 
thinking,  and  Din, watching  the  swift  moving  river, 
felt  a  kind  warmness  stealing  over  him ;  and  it  was 
not  the  sun,  for  it  had  already  set  in  a  bank  of 
stormy  clouds. 

And  the  moon  came  up  over  the  river,  and  flooded 
the  willows  with  light,  where  they  were  drenched 
with  the  passing  water.  And  the  clouds  fled  before 
the  wind  and  laid  bare  the  heavens. 

And  Bill  Din  dreamed  of  a  possibility  of  happi- 
ness, and  his  eyes  never  closed  throughout  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

A  LOVELY  EVENT 

ANNE  had  only  once  been  to  Ari-wa-kis,  for  she 
had  had  great  difficulty  in  persuading  Star 
to  pass  the  gate  that  led  to  the  large  frame  house. 
This  difficulty  had  kept  her  in  other  directions. 

This  Sunday  morning  her  pony  had  gone  as 
though  aware  that  it  was  on  a  journey  home,  and 
the  gate  being  open,  she  rode  into  the  yard. 

Star  trod  on  catnip  and  Michaelmas  daisies, 
now  rioting  vigorously  on  all  sides,  showing  the 
lack  of  life  for  some  months;  but  she  could  see 
smoke  issuing  from  the  chimney,  so  she  tied  the 
pony  to  the  fence  and  came  under  the  big  maple 
tree  sheltering  the  porch. 

She  knocked. 

There  was  no  answer. 

While   she  waited  Anne  caught   sight  of  the 

347 


348  The  Hunter 

gleaming  water,  and  beyond  it,  on  the  south  bank, 
the  old  cabin,  where  the  hunter  had  lived  only  a 
short  while  ago. 

Still  there  was  no  answer. 

Anne  rapped  louder,  and  heard  footsteps.  She 
looked  eagerly  for  the  figure  of  a  woman,  and  saw, 
at  last,  a  pale  thin  girl,  who  stood  looking  at  her  in 
an  unseeing  way. 

"Mrs.  Buttress?"  said  Anne. 

"Please  go  away — I  can't  see  any  one. " 

"May  I  rest?  I  don't  feel  equal  to  riding  back 
again  just  now." 

"Yes,"  said  Silvia. 

She  was  still  looking  at  Mrs.  Butt  as  though  she 
saw  beyond  her. 

"Take  a  seat  anywhere  you  like,"  she  added. 

Anne  sat  down  on  the  nearest  chair,  and  looked 
nervously  at  the  girl.  She  was  standing  in  the 
doorway,  staring  at  the  maple  tree  with  abstracted 
eyes. 

"Mrs.  Buttress,"  said  Anne.  "Could  I  have 
a  drink  of  water?" 


A  Lovely  Event  349 

Silvia  went  out  of  the  room  and  came  back  with 
a  glass,  which  she  filled  with  a  dipper  from  a  pail  of 
fresh  water. 

"Star  loves  this  place, "  said  Anne. 
"Star?"  said  Silvia.     "Did  you  come  on  Star? 
I  don't  like  that  pony  very  good. " 

"Poor  little  pony,"  said  Anne,  "she  loves  you. 
I  expect  she's  turning  her  head  to  look  for  you  to 
come  to  her.     Take  her  an  apple. " 

Silvia  picked  one  from  the  table  and  went  out  to 
Star,  Anne  following  her. 

She's  a  pretty  thing, "  said  the  girl. 
So  she  is!"  said  Anne.     "And  you  rode  her 
once  I  hear. " 

' '  Me !   Why,  who  are  you  ?    The  schoolma '  am  ? ' ' 
Yes." 

0,  ma'am,  we  were  once  happy,  the  pony  and 
me.  I  wish  you'd  go  away.  I've  been  here  alone 
for  two  weeks  and  I  had  a  dream  last  night  that's 
driven  me  crazy.  I'm  sure  not  fit  for  company. " 
'My  poor  child,"  said  Anne.  "I  wonder  you 
haven't  gone  mad." 


<  i  i 


<  <  < 


<  c 


<  < 


35°  The  Hunter 

1 '  Do  you  believe  in  dreams  ?  But  I  ain't  a'goin* 
to  ask  you!  Yes,  Star  knows  me  good  enough. 
Do  you  like  the  view  from  here?" 

1 '  The  most  beautiful  view  anywhere  about  here. 
Will  you  take  me  to  the  lake-side?" 

1 '  I  was  just  a'goin'  when  you  came  into  the  yard. 
I  felt  like  creepin'  about  in  the  brush,  same  as  I  did 
when  a  kid.  That's  my  husband's  house,  across 
the  lake,  close  by  the  water. " 

Silvia  sighed,  two  terrible  sighs,  that  went  to 
Anne's  heart. 

She  took  the  girl's  hand  and  held  it  firmly;  and 
Silvia,  after  looking  earnestly  into  Mrs.  Butt's 
face,  left  passive  fingers  in  the  warm  grasp.  And 
so  they  journeyed  down  the  slope  towards  the 
water. 

Suddenly  Anne  felt  a  jerk,  as  Silvia's  fingers 
freed  themselves,  and  a  woman  came  out  from 
some  blackberry  bushes  with   a  half -filled  pail. 

It  was  Catherine  Talbot. 

11  Is  it  true  about  your  husband,  Silvia  Buttress  ? ' 
she  called  out. 


A  Lovely  Event  351 


(c 


<< 


!What  is  the  news,  Catherine?" 
He's  missing,  they  say.     Been  lost." 

Anne  saw  the  girl  straighten  herself. 

" Where  did  you  get  the  news?"  she  called 
out. 

"In  to-day's  papers.  They're  all  a'talkin' 
about  it  in  Alamanca.  " 

Silvia  ran  into  the  brush  and  down  the  slope 
followed  more  slowly  by  Mrs.  Butt.  Cath- 
erine continued  her  journey  with  her  pail  of 
berries. 

"Now  she  knows, "  said  Anne  to  herself. 

Reaching  the  pebbly  shore  of  the  lake,  Silvia 
threw  stone  after  stone  into  the  water.  She  sent 
them  skimming  along  with  such  a  skill  that  Anne 
could  see  the  child  of  a  few  years  back,  playing 
games  on  long  summer  evenings.  Silvia  turned 
to  greet  her  with  the  words — "My  dream!" 

"Yes,"  said  Anne  soothingly.  "You  must  go 
to  find  him." 

"I  said  if  it  was  a  life  or  death  matter,  I'd  come. 
I  must  have  known,  in  a  way.     Ma'am  'twas  my 


352  The  Hunter 

fault  I'm  here!     But  I'll  go  when  I'm  collected. 


» > 


"Bill  Din  has  gone  already. " 

"Bill!" 

The  rage  and  contempt  in  these  words  frightened 
Anne. 

"He's  sorrier  than  he  can  say — he's  gone 
already.  We'll  go  when  you  like,  "  Mrs.  Butt  added 
quickly. 

"Then  tell  me,  have  you  seen  the  paper?" 

"Your  husband  and  another  man,  who  were 
working  for  Hal  Robbs  have  disappeared,  and 
there  is  no  clue  to  their  whereabouts. " 

"We'll  go,"  said  Silvia.  "Are  you  comin'  with 
me?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Anne. 

Silvia  looked  at  Ari-wa-kis  once  more. 

Anne,  standing  amongst  hickory,  cherry,  and 
wild  apple  trees,  waited  for  her  new  friend.  She 
could  see  that  the  girl  was  thinking  intently. 

There  was  a  faint  breath  of  wind,  it  ruffled  the 
surface  of  the  water ;  but  under  the  shelter  of  the 


A  Lovely  Event  353 

brush  on  the  south  shore  the  lake  was  becalmed 
into  a  blue-green  shadow. 

Silvia's  eyes  had  gone  to  the  north  shore. 

She  turned  round  to  look  for  Anne,  and  held 
out  her  hand  to  her. 

"Ma'am,  "  she  said,  "you're  the  kindest  woman 
I  ever  met.  I'll  tell  you  somethin'.  Have  you 
ever  heard  of  the  hunter  who  lived  in  the  cabin  on 
the  north  shore?  When  I  was  pretty  sick  with 
the  world,  getting  hardened  with  findin'  my  way 
into  life,  a  lovely  event  happened  to  me  which 
lifted  me  out  of  the  dark. " 

"Through  him?"  asked  Anne.  "Through  the 
hunter?" 

"Through  him,"  said  Silvia. 

The  silence  slowly  filtered  the  spirits  of  the  two 
women,  until  it  was  possible  to  begin  again. 

"I  was  a-bathin'  down  there — Ari-wa-kis — 
south  shore — a  place  where  none  ever  came  before. 
Buttress  was  a  mad  hunter,  he  went  where  none 
ever  went  before.  I  never  knew  he  was  there, 
and  as  I  was  a'comin'  splashin'  out,  I  heard  some- 

23 


354  The  Hunter 

thin',  and  it  was  a  step,  and  I  felt  the  shame  stingin' 
me  like  death,  as  it  came  to  me,  wonderin'  who  he 
could  be.  And  I  looked — and  there  was  Buttress. 
And  would  you  believe  it,  as  sure  as  life,  there  came 
over  me,  as  I  looked  at  him,  a  beautiful  warm 
shining  little  dress,  which  fitted  me  like  an  angel 
had  done  it,  and  comforted  me,  so  as  I  felt  clothed! 
And  it  was  real,  more  real  and  true  than  dresses 
made  up  to  Alamanca,  with  waistbands  and  hooks 
and  eyes!  And  Buttress  made  the  dress  and  gave 
me  it,  and  all  in  a  moment  he  did  it,  'cos  he  was 
made  that  way.  And  after  that,  he  forgot  he  did 
it,  'cos  it  come  so  natural." 

The  sound  of  a  cowbell  tinkled  from  the  low 
pastures  and  the  reeds  rustled  in  the  breeze.  Sil- 
via walked  away  along  the  pebbly  shore.  Anne 
could  see  her  white  dress  fluttering  in  the  move- 
ment of  wind  and  the  little  gay  comb  she  wore  in 
her  hair,  now  ablaze  with  the  sunbeams.  So  she 
flitted  into  distance,  like  a  fireflv. 

There,  standing  in  the  soft  shadows,  Anne 
thought  of  all  the  suitors,  one  by  one,  in  turn — 


A  Lovely  Event  355 

Bank  notes  and  dollars  mouldered  into  darkness; 
mansions  became  crumbling  dust;  scholarship 
ended  in  dry  bones;  but  the  golden  spirit  of  life 
itself,  the  creator  of  Love,  won,  out  of  nothing  but 
spirit. 


CHAPTER    L 

THE     HUNTER'S     DEFENDERS 

JOHN  D.  SCALE  halted  on  the  path. 
He  had  been  making  his  way  swiftly  through 
the  brush,  and  was  about  to  slip  amongst  the  alders 
and  willows  near  the  river,  when  he  heard  an  un- 
accustomed sound. 

He  saw  an  Indian,  only  a  foot  away  from  him. 

Scale  became  nervous. 

"Where — hunter?"  cried  Blue-grass. 

Scale's  hair  rose  on  end;  he  bit  his  lips.     He 
dropped  a  piece  of  wood. 

"Fear  not,"  said  the  Indian.     "See?" 

Blue-grass  threw  his  knife  down,  and  stretched 
out  his  hand. 

Scale  took  it  with  agony. 

"Hunter  bad  sick — Blue-grass  see  him!" 

Scale  nodded. 

356 


The  Hunter's  Defenders         357 

He  slipped  amongst  the  alders  and  willows, 
closely  followed,  almost  to  the  heel,  by  the  Indian. 
A  quarter  of  an  hour's  walk  brought  them  to  a 
rocky  portion  of  the  river.  Here,  formed  out 
of  limestone,  were  several  tortuous  caves.  The 
Indian  smiled  as  he  watched  Scale  cautiously 
advance. 

"  Blue-grass  knows  all  roads — pretty  good.  Him 
keep  still!" 

Scale  dare  not  answer.  He  entered  the  cave, 
followed  by  the  Indian. 

Buttress  lay  on  a  bed  of  leaves  and  corn-stalks. 

It  was  covered  also  with  an  old  coat,  once  worn 
by  John  D.  Scale. 

11 Hunter  fall — bad  sick!"  said  Blue-grass. 

He  stood  in  solemn  silence,  surveying  the  ema- 
ciated form  of  the  unconscious  man. 

Scale  nodded. 

The  Indian  still  surveyed  the  low  couch  with  a 
stern  eye. 

"Him— see?— No?" 

"No,"  said  Scale. 


35^  The  Hunter 

"Ha!"  said  the  Indian,  still  gazing  at  the  once 
strong  man. 

Blue-grass  never  spoke  for  two  or  three  minutes, 
and  then  he  said:  "Him  wound — on  head." 

"Chief  Robbs!"  said  Scale. 

"Him  rat!"  said  the  Indian.  "Him  not  Chief! 
Indian  hunt  him  when  lazy  time  come,  small 
game!" 

Scale  surveyed  the  Indian,  but  dare  not  speak 
again. 

Blue-grass  laid  some  fish  on  the  floor  of  the  cave 
near  the  door.  Then  he  came  up  to  the  bed  and 
knelt  down  at  Buttress's  feet.  He  touched  them 
gently  with  his  hand  several  times,  and  said  in  a 
low  voice:  "No  more  hunt — no  more,  Friend 
Buttress!  Yes — him  live — him  run,  walk,  leap, 
climb!" 

He  got  up  and  came  away,  Scale  making  room 
for  him. 

"See?"  said  the  Indian.  "Blue-grass  look  in 
eyes  of  John  D.  Scale.     Him  all  right!" 

The  Indian  put  his  hand  up  impressively,  smiled 


The  Hunter's  Defenders         359 

suddenly,  and  went  out  of  the  cave  into  the  sun- 
shine. 

"Three  weeks — and  not  a  word!"  said  John  D. 
Scale.     "Even  'im  was  a  comfort!" 

A  groan  issued  from  the  floor,  and  then  a  word, 
two  words,  three  or  four. 

Scale  heard  "father/'  he  heard  "gun"  and 
"dog." 

He  clapped  his  hands.  The  Indian  had  brought 
good  fortune. 


CHAPTER    LI 


LOUIS'S  DIARY 


IT  was  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  a  beauti- 
ful silvery  light,  the  dawn's  first  herald  of  the 
sun,  greeted  Buttress's  opening  eyes. 

A  waft  of  air  further  awakened  him.  He  raised 
himself  carefully,  and  struggled  to  his  feet. 

No  one  was  in  the  cave. 

He  started,  with  hesitating,  weak  steps,  to  fum- 
ble his  way  to  the  opening. 

It  took  him  five  minutes  to  do  it,  and  when  this 
had  been  accomplished,  he  staggered  with  the 
vividness  of  the  new  day. 

The  light  was  intolerable,  and  Louis  reeled. 

He  did  not  fall,  he  balanced  himself  with  great 

care  and  precision.     He  took  hold  of  the  jagged 

wall  of  limestone  crag.    Then  he  looked  about  him. 

He  shut  his  eyes  for  a  few  minutes,  and  when  he 

360 


Louis's  Diary  361 

opened  them  again,  their  blue  pupils  dilating,  he 
called  out  with  his  whole  strength. 

What  was  his  surprise  to  find  that  his  tone  had 
degenerated  into  a  gasping,  untuneful  whisper. 

He  was  weak. 

"That's  all  I  am!"  cried  Louis  to  himself.  "It 
ain't  any  use  to  hunt  to-day.  Still — Ari-wa-kis 
will  be  waiting  for  me." 

"Where  am  I?  I  thought  I  heard  Spen's  voice." 

He  gazed  before  him. 

He  could  see  pale  willows,  now  showing  yellow 
leaves  among  the  green  of  their  soft  foliage.  He 
could  see  water.     He  heard  it. 

"The  lake's  rushin'!"  said  Louis.  "Am  I 
mad?" 

He  sat  down  outside  the  door  of  the  cave. 

"Silvia!"  he  said  in  a  whisper. 

This  word  sent  him  shrinking  within  himself  and 
he  became  profoundly  thoughtful. 

He  sat  in  stupefied  silence,  while  the  birds 
around  him  gathered  their  voices  together  into  a 
morning  concert. 


362  The  Hunter 

"Silvia!"  he  repeated  again  in  a  questioning 
tone. 

Still  he  gathered  no  connected  story  from  his 
mind's  long  wanderings,  until  at  length,  in  some 
vague  way,  words  roamed  into  his  mind:  '"Think 
me  out'!"  said  Louis,  softly. 

He  became  lost  in  thought. 

It  was  one  of  those  days  when  the  country  wakes 
up,  under  the  sun,  in  such  a  magnificently  gener- 
ous way,  that  the  first  hour  of  Creation  is  almost 
before  the  vision  of  an  old  world.  Louis,  survey- 
ing the  white  drenching  dew  lying  on  everything 
around  him,  smelling  its  moisture  on  the  withered 
pods  of  the  spider-webbed  willows,  felt  tremulous 
and  full  of  a  strange  awe. 

He  sat  an  hour  outside  the  cave,  and  the  warmth 
of  the  sun  did  him  good.  Every  second  his  mind 
grew  clearer,  and  he  looked  at  the  river,  glistening 
between  willow  leaves,  and  said : 

"Blue-grass,  Bill  Din— Bill !— and  Silvia!" 

John  D.  Scale  came  up  from  the  bank  of  the 
river  with  a  fish  he  had  caught  for  breakfast. 


Louis's  Diary  363 

Buttress  put  out  his  hand. 

"My  friend!"  he  said. 

"Oh — not  half,"  said  Scale,  but  he  took  Louis's 
hand  in  his,  and  then  went  swiftly  about  breakfast. 

Buttress  watched  the  fire-lighting  with  a  smile  of 
pleasure,  and  even  put  his  hands  out  to  catch 
warmth.  When  John  laid  the  fish  in  fat,  and  they 
were  frizzling,  Buttress  said:  "Everything  has  a 
beginning  and  an  end,  but  there  always  follows 
another  track.     Ain't  that  so?" 

Scale  begged  him  to  eat  some  fish. 

"Sure!"  said  Louis.  "I'm  an  idle  beggar. 
How  long  have  you  been  huntin'  food  for  me?" 

"  Three  weeks. " 

"There's  a  tale  behind  those  three  weeks,"  said 
Louis  sharply. 

Scale  was  terrified  at  the  wise  look  in  the  hun- 
ter's face. 

"You  eat,  and  sit  in  the  sun,  and  get  strong!" 
he  said. 

"Sure!"  said  Louis. 

He  fell  asleep  after  breakfast,  and  Scale  went 


362  The  Hunter 

"Silvia!"  he  repeated  again  in  a  questioning 
tone. 

Still  he  gathered  no  connected  story  from  his 
mind's  long  wanderings,  until  at  length,  in  some 
vague  way,  words  roamed  into  his  mind:  '"Think 
me  out'!"  said  Louis,  softly. 

He  became  lost  in  thought. 

It  was  one  of  those  days  when  the  country  wakes 
up,  under  the  sun,  in  such  a  magnificently  gener- 
ous way,  that  the  first  hour  of  Creation  is  almost 
before  the  vision  of  an  old  world.  Louis,  survey- 
ing the  white  drenching  dew  lying  on  everything 
around  him,  smelling  its  moisture  on  the  withered 
pods  of  the  spider-webbed  willows,  felt  tremulous 
and  full  of  a  strange  awe. 

He  sat  an  hour  outside  the  cave,  and  the  warmth 
of  the  sun  did  him  good.  Every  second  his  mind 
grew  clearer,  and  he  looked  at  the  river,  glistening 
between  willow  leaves,  and  said : 

"Blue-grass,  Bill  Din— Bill !— and  Silvia!" 

John  D.  Scale  came  up  from  the  bank  of  the 
river  with  a  fish  he  had  caught  for  breakfast. 


Louis's  Diary  363 

Buttress  put  out  his  hand. 

"My  friend!"  he  said. 

"Oh — not  half,"  said  Scale,  but  he  took  Louis's 
hand  in  his,  and  then  went  swiftly  about  breakfast. 

Buttress  watched  the  fire-lighting  with  a  smile  of 
pleasure,  and  even  put  his  hands  out  to  catch 
warmth.  When  John  laid  the  fish  in  fat,  and  they 
were  frizzling,  Buttress  said:  "Everything  has  a 
beginning  and  an  end,  but  there  always  follows 
another  track.     Ain't  that  so?" 

Scale  begged  him  to  eat  some  fish. 

"Sure!"  said  Louis.  "I'm  an  idle  beggar. 
How  long  have  you  been  huntin'  food  for  me?" 

"  Three  weeks. " 

"There's  a  tale  behind  those  three  weeks,"  said 
Louis  sharply. 

Scale  was  terrified  at  the  wise  look  in  the  hun- 
ter's face. 

"You  eat,  and  sit  in  the  sun,  and  get  strong!" 
he  said. 

"Sure!"  said  Louis. 

He  fell  asleep  after  breakfast,  and  Scale  went 


364  The  Hunter 

about  whistling.  The  man  had  a  feeling  that  the 
hunter  was  his  own  property,  saved  from  the 
wreck  of  Robbs's  salvage. 

It  was  when  the  sun  was  at  the  meridian,  and 
Scale  was  resting  also,  that  Louis  looked  at  him 
again,  and  said: — "Tell  me  how  you  done  it?" 

"The  Swede  hit  you  and  you  was  about  dead. 
Then  the  camp  quit  the  place  all  in  a  hurry.  I 
was  off  with  the  rest.  But  it  was  no  use.  I'd 
taken  a  peculiar  liking  to  you,  and  I  did  a  bunk  in 
the  night,  and  buzzed  back  to  you." 

Buttress  relapsed  into  silence. 

Scale  thought  he  was  asleep,  but  looking  round, 
saw  Louis  smiling  at  him. 

"You  ain't  any  family,  have  you?"  said  Scale, 
jubilantly. 

"I'm  married,"  said  Buttress. 

Scale  got  up  and  went  sulkily  amongst  the  wil- 
lows. He  came  back  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
but  he  did  not  speak  any  more. 

Louis  called  him  in  the  afternoon. 

"Quit  your  job!"  he  said. 


Louis's  Diary  365 

Scale  obeyed  instantly. 

" Where  did  you  learn  to  do  as  you  was  told?" 
inquired  Buttress  in  a  surprised  voice. 

"God  save  me!"  cried  Scale.  "'Tain't  respect- 
able to  name  it!" 

"Everything  has  a  beginning  and  an  end!" 
repeated  the  hunter. 

"God  save  me!"  said  Scale  fervently.  "I 
thought  my  life  would  never  end!" 

What  have  you  done?"  said  Buttress. 
Killed  a  man,"  said  Scale,  awestruck  with  the 
truth. 

"Saved  another, "  said  Buttress,  "remember  it !  " 

Scale  pulled  himself  nearer  to  the  hunter. 

"'Twasn't  done  in  coldness,  no  premeditation, 
and  nothin'  of  that !  I  was  overswept  with  f eelin's 
bigger'n  me,  and  I  shot  a  man  in  the  heart.  Can 
you  guess  why?" 

Buttress  raised  himself  with  an  effort. 

"Are  you  married?"  he  said. 

"A  woman  married  me,"  said  Scale.  "I  was 
unprepared   for   all   these   mixed-up    doings   the 


a 


a 


366  The  Hunter 

world  indulges  in,  with  such  charnces  to  do  it. 
My  wife  and  my  friend  were  larfing  at  me.  That 
awakenin'  to  see  I  was  their  dupe  made  me  the 
prey  of  the  devil.  I  didn't  give  in  to  him,  mind 
you,  but  he  took  hold  of  me,  and  ran  me.  The 
Judge  let  me  off,  easy,  sayin'  the  circumstances 
were  all  in  favour  of  having  the  man  shot!" 

Buttress  became  abstracted. 

"It's  a  horrible  subject,'  said  Scale,  enthusi- 
astically, "I  know  another  tale — 'twas  a  girl  what 
was  kept  with  a  lovely  mind,  all  her  own,  with 
lovely  ideas.  She  had  two  blokes  lovin'  her — one 
was  as  fine  as  they  make  'em — the  other  had  made 
himself  master  of  all  there  is  to  learn  about  women. 
I  notice  that  this  subject  of  knowing  our  partners 
before  we  woo  'em,  is  studied  by  the  bad  people, 
while  the  good  people  leave  it  to  charnst!  The 
wrong  man  won  the  girl,  not  because  he  was  wrong, 
but  because  he  knew  what  he  was  doing.  The 
other  man,  right  as  he  was — didn't  know  how  to 
act  to  a  girl,  'cos  he  ain't  thought  about  it — see?" 

Scale  turned  to  Buttress. 


Louis's  Diary  367 

The  hunter's  eyes  were  glazed,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment he  looked  as  if  he  were  dead. 

"I'll  bring  you  some  broth,"   said  Scale. 

He  went  about  his  work,  and  when  Buttress  had 
taken  a  drink  from  the  cup  he  said  to  Scale: 
"Tell  me  about  that  poor  girl!" 

"The  man's  cruelties  were  nothin'  that  'ud  hang 
him — she  died  of  realizing  what  he  was — still, 
as  she  lay  dead,  I  was  thankful!  She  lay  at 
peace." 

"It  shouldn't  have  happened,"  said  Buttress. 
"She  should  have  known  the  right  man." 

"There  was  a  bachelor  chap  once,  married  a 
girl,  and  she  didn't  tell  him  she  liked  petting,  he 
never  thought  of  it  hisself — see?  That's  a  funny 
story  for  a  change!  She  set  the  house  on  fire  and 
burned  them  both  up!" 

Buttress  took  the  cup,  and  poured  out  the  last 
few  drops  of  soup. 

"You're  a  great  laugher!"  he  said. 

1 '  It  ain't  me,  it's  the  story ! ' '  said  Scale.  ' '  Once, 
when  I  was  in  London,  I  did  up  bottles  of  medicine 


368  The  Hunter 

for  a  doctor — do  you  mind  me  talkin'? — I've  been 
sayin'  nothin'  for  three  weeks." 

"If  you  must  do  it,  go  on!"  said  Buttress. 

"The  doctor  was  confidential  with  me,  and  he 
said  to  me  more  than  a  hundred  times  that  of  all 
the  family  homes  into  which  he  entered,  only  three 
couples  out  of  the  multitude  was  equal  to  the  ideal ! 
That  gives  the  whole  thing  in  its  misery.  I  made 
up  my  mind  I'd  find  a  man  embittered  like  me, 
and  live  with  'im.  We  all  put  up  with  it,  but  we 
don't  like  to  face  the  fact  that  marriage  is  a  lottery, 
'cept  to  the  wrong  people,  and  they  pick  out  the 
best  without  any  speculation — same  as  Delilah  did 
Samson.  When  do  you  find  a  man  and  woman 
equally  matched?     Once  in  a  blue  moon!" 

Buttress  thrust  the  cup  away  from  him,  and 
tried  to  place  it  on  the  uneven  ground.  His  lips 
were  trembling  for  speech,  bat  he  was  too  weak 
to  give  power  to  his  words. 

He  signed  to  Scale  to  stop  talking. 

The  man  went  about  his  odd  jobs  without  any 
more  ado. 


Louis's  Diary  369 

Buttress  fell  asleep  again,  and  did  not  awake 
until  the  next  day  when  he  heard  the  sound  of  rain 
beating  on  leaves  and  ground. 

He  could  see  Scale,  whittling  a  stick  in  the 
shadows. 

"Come  near  me!"  said  Buttress. 

Scale  ran  to  him. 

"Get  a  paper  and  pencil  and  put  down  what  I 
say!" 

Scale  felt  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  produced 
a  stump.  He  riddled  in  another  pocket  and  found 
some  paper. 

"Is  it  a  will?"  he  asked. 

"No!"  said  Buttress  in  a  loud  voice. 

Scale  was  silent. 

"A  few  thoughts  and  I  want  you  to  have  them, " 
he  said.  "I'd  write  it  on  the  walls  if  I  had  strength 
to  get  it  off  my  mind.  I'm  going  home  to- 
morrow." 

"Oh!"  said  Scale. 

The  man  felt  sulky  again.      If  the  hunter  was 

going  back  to  his  wife,  why  trouble  with  him  any 
24 


370  The  Hunter 

more?  He  half  determined  to  put  the  pencil  in 
his  pocket. 

But  the  hunter  was  looking  earnestly  at  him. 

" First  of  all,"  said  Buttress,  "put  down  in  big 
letters,  and  think  big  while  you're  a'doin'  it — 
'What  does  Creation  mean?  —  What  does  it 
mean  to  you,  to  me,  to  all  the  world?" 

Scale  was  busy  for  a  while,  and  when  he  looked 
up  again  at  Buttress,  surprise  was  the  expression 
on  his  face. 

"  What's  that  look  for?"  said  Buttress. 

"Don't  know  wot  I  look  like, "  said  Scale. 

"If  I  was  to  sit  up  and  tell  you  all  the  ugly  tales 
that  have  been  acted  out  in  the  district  to  which 
I  belong,  because  of  disrespect  to  God's  laws,  you'd 
back  them  with  more — that's  what  you'd  do — 
you'd  back  them  with  more.  You  ain't  surprised 
at  any  story  told  about  the  wrong  side  of  Creation. 
But  if  I  begin  to  talk  about  the  right  side  of 
Creation — if  I  begin  to  praise  God  for  the  greatest 
gift  He  has  given  to  man,  as  a  human  creature, 
you'd  open  your  eyes!" 


Louis's  Diary  371 

"I'm  willin'  to  have  'em  opened!"  said  Scale. 

"Then  put  down  as  the  next  thing:  'Why  does 
man  forgit  to  study  the  foundations  of  life?' — 
He'll  get  more  out  of  that,  than  out  of  anything  he 
makes  with  his  brains  and  hands. " 

"The  wrong  people  doesn't — so  completely  does 
the  wrong  ones  study  up  the  subject,  that  while 
there's  none  that's  bitterer  than  me  about  these 
wicked  ones  that  work  mischief,  and  makes 
tragedies  of  homes,  I  sometimes  think  that  I'd 
have  been  a  happier  man — p'raps  a  better — if  I'd 
been  brought  up  in  the  midst  of  them !  Known 
somethin'  too,  see?" 

"Is  that  it?"  said  Buttress,  "that's  the  world's 
disgrace.  That's  what  I'm  coming  to!  Put 
down — 'We're  all  at  work  to  lift  ourselves  in 
the  scale  of  Creation.'  We  turn  our  eyes  in 
every  direction.  There's  no  road  we  don't  try 
and  get  a  path  through — however  rough  and  cut- 
up  and  blocked  with  difficulties.  There's  the 
North  and  South  Pole  for  examples  of  man's 
determination.     Ain't    it    true?    We   invent,  we 


372  The  Hunter 

scheme,  we  try  experiments.  And  all  the  while, 
we  forget  God.  We  forget  God  most  of  all  in  the 
creation  of  our  children.  Now  we're  not  a'goin' 
to  do  that — in  the  future — Scale.  We're  goin'  to 
think,  and  know,  and  remember  that  to  create  a 
soul  is  God's  joy,  and  He  gave  to  us  our  lives  and 
power  to  do  it,  because  He  loves  to  show  us  a  road 
to  the  stars.  Think,  Scale.  Forget  your  own  bit 
o'  personal  trouble ;  think  of  all  the  little  children 
getting  created  out  of  pure  love !  They'll  be  gems 
— those  children." 

"Poor  blessed  kids!"  said  Scale.  "It  cuts  me 
up  to  think  of  babies  in  the  muddle  of  mistakes. ' 

"Put  it  down,  Scale.  What  in  the  name  of  Cre- 
ation are  we  a'doin',  that  we  don't  set  all  our  hopes 
on  the  realities  given  us  in  soul  raisin'  ?  On  this 
score  man  must  never  send  a  buildin'  thought  to 
Hell,  especially  about  the  comin'  of  the  children, 
especially  about  the  soul  that  shall  match  ours. 
Match  is  a  right  word,  Scale!  To  all  these  things 
man  must  give  himself,  as  he  would  give  his  heart 
to  God — entirely.     For  these  thoughts  he  must 


Louis's  Diary  373 

kill  his  body  if  need  be,  for  in  the  reverence  of 
the  irreverent,  we  can  see  the  soul  unfold  its 
wings." 

"My,"  said  Scale  sadly.  "It  do  feel  good  to 
believe  the  best  side  wins  out!" 

"Sure!"  said  Buttress.  "Give  right  a  chance. 
I've  lived  by  a  lake-side  all  my  days,  and  thought 
a  lot  about  nature  and  I  don't  know  enough  about 
my  own  race.  Still,  my  beginning  was  good,  and 
I've  got  my  eyes  opened.  I'm  thinkin'  some,  these 
days,  thinkin'  from  the  big  right  side,  and  I  have 
my  finger  on  the  page  of  knowledge.  And  I'll 
have  every  thin'  right — I  say  those  words  from  the 
deeps  within  me — I'll  have  everythin'  right,  as  in 
the  beginnin',  in  that  beautiful  Garden  of  Eden, 
where  there  was  no  need  of  knowledge.  And  now 
we've  got  to  despise  that  tree  once  again — that's 
our  serpent,  still  keepin'  us  out  of  Paradise — 
fre've  got  to  sense  God  bigger'n  the  fools  of  men 
who  think  that  tree  is  wisdom,  and  a  hand  bigger 
than  the  fools  of  women,  who  think  innocence 
better'n  truth — that's  woman's  way  of    despisin' 


374  The  Hunter 

God's  laws!  The  world  must  eat  of  the  tree  that 
tells  'em  that  the  laws  of  God  are  perfect." 

Scale  gazed  at  Buttress. 

"He  believes  in  hisself,"  thought  the  learner, 
"I  call  it  a  treat  to  know  that  wrong  doin'  ain't 
worth  considerin' — I'll  begin  from  the  beginning. " 

There  was  a  rustling  of  leaves  near  by  and  in 
another  minute  two  figures  blocked  the  light  from 
without,  and  one  tall  straight  form  bent  to  find 
a  way  within,  to  the  hunter's  side. 

"Bill!"  cried  Buttress  in  a  glad  voice. 

Bill  ran  to  his  friend  and  knelt  down,  and  took 
both  his  hands,  and  wrung  them  again  and  again. 
Buttress,  feeling  weak,  let  the  tears  drop  down  his 
thin  cheeks.  They  shook  hands  but  remained  in 
silence.  The  Indian  was  for  a  second  motionless 
in  the  doorway,  then  he  disappeared  from  sight. 
Scale  crept  into  a  dark  corner  of  the  cave. 


CHAPTER  LII 
Sheridan's  faith 

MRS.  BUTT  stayed  all  night  with  Silvia,  pro- 
mising an  early  start  in  the  morning,  but 
when  the  daylight  arrived  the  girl  was  in  a  fever, 
now  raving  about  the  woods,  and  now  talking  with 
sense  and  calmness. 

"It  ain't  anythin'  but  tiredness,"  she  said. 
"I'll  be  better  in  an  hour  or  two,  and  then  well 
start.     Tell  Spen  to  wait  until  I  feel  strong. 

Mrs.  Butt  asked  Spen  to  go  for  the  doctor.  The 
man  rushed  off  full  speed,  leaving  the  buggy  and 
one  horse  at  Ari-wa-kis. 

When  he  returned  he  found  Mrs.  Butt  still  very 
anxious. 

"I  think  it  is  low  fever,"  she  said,  "for  she  is 
different  every  few  minutes.  Can  you  go  for  Mrs. 
Eden?"    . 

375 


(( 


( ( 


376  The  Hunter 

Spen  did  as  he  was  told,  and  Mrs.  Butt  returned 
to  Silvia's  room. 

Is  Spen  still  waiting?"  said  the  girl. 
He    is    ready    when    you    are,"    said    Mrs. 
Butt. 

"We'll  go  directly, "  said  Silvia,  throwing  herself 
back  on  the  pillows,  and  falling  into  a  broken 
sleep.  She  awaked  suddenly,  crying  out  in  a  voice 
of  distress. 

"What  is  wrong,  Silvia?"  asked  Mrs.  Butt. 

"See,"  said  the  girl,  "he  lies  dead — alas! — that 
so  many  mistakes  have  been  made!" 

"He  is  better,  "  said  Anne,  words  rising  from  she 
knew  not  where;  "better,  and  coming  home. ' 

"Coming  home,"  said  Silvia,  falling  asleep  again. 

The  awakening  was  to  be  so  cruel  and  full  of 
alarm,  that  Anne  sat  close  by  the  girl,  ready  to 
smile  reassuringly  should  she  start  up.  She  was 
often  thrilled  with  horror,  as  though  she  saw 
Louis  in  distress.  This  went  on  until  the  doctor 
came,  with  a  doctor's  advice. 

"She  must  on  no  account  be  moved — the  best 


Sheridan's  Faith  377 

thing,  of  course,  is  to  produce  her  husband.  Is 
there  no  more  news?" 

4 'Mr.  Din  has  gone  in  search  of  him, "  said  Anne. 

"A  better  man  could  not  have  gone,"  said  the 
doctor.  "It  is  well  you  are  here,  Mrs.  Butt.  I'll 
get  Mrs.  Eden  to  bring  over  suitable  medicines." 
And  he  went  away. 

So  Anne  sat  down  to  an  accustomed  task.  Life 
had  often  brought  to  her  this  long  routine  of  a  day 
given  up  to  some  poor  restless  being,  with  a  world 
shut  out  like  a  curtain  down — only  the  dusk  at 
nightfall  to  tell  of  the  change  from  daylight  to 
lamplight. 

It  was  dusk  now,  and  for  a  few  moments  Silvia's 
sleep  seemed  natural.  Mrs.  Butt  slipped  out  of 
the  room  to  meet  Mrs.  Eden. 

"Poor  thing!"  said  the  farmer's  wife.  'I've 
brought  every  sort  of  thing  that  might  be  useful. 
I've  a  buggy  full  outside.  That's  an  air  cushion 
belongin'  to  our  poor  Peter  who  died  of  a  brain 
fever.  I  hope  it  ain't  the  brain — I  despair  when 
it's  the  brain.     And  there's  the  doctor's  medicine, 


37%  The  Hunter 

if  she's  excitable.  But  don't  you  use  it,  Mrs.  Butt, 
unless  you're  obliged — it'll  be  deadening  stuff, 
and  it'll  make  her  worse  in  the  end.  Oh,  and 
there's  someone  gone  over  to  the  junction  in  case 
there's  news  from  Mr.  Din.  And  if  there  is, 
they'll  be  back  with  it  in  the  morning.  That's 
what's  wanted,  not  morphine." 

Anne  took  the  bottles  and  the  parcels,  helping 
Mrs.  Eden  to  get  them  from  the  buggy. 

Mrs.  Eden  drove  away  again. 

It  was  a  quiet  autumn  evening,  not  even  a  whis- 
per of  a  breeze  stirred  the  foliage,  which  in  its 
heaviness,  darkness,  and  silence  seemed  like  part 
of  a  great  and  solemn  picture. 

Anne,  looking  around  the  yard,  seeing  the  glim- 
mer of  water  like  light,  rather  than  the  surface  of 
the  lake,  was  thinking  about  many  things.  Bill's 
face  was  present  to  her  mind. 

She  was  returning  to  the  house  when  she  heard  the 
gate  open  and  shut.  She  could  not  see  any  one,  but 
she  heard  steps.  She  walked  to  the  kitchen  door 
and  pushed  it  wider  open,  as  a  help  to  the  new- 


Sheridan's  Faith  379 

comer.     He  came  to  the  door  and  remained  there. 

''Mrs.  Butt." 

"Come  in,  Mr.  Sheridan." 

"Is  she  better?" 

"About  the  same." 

There  was  silence  for  a  while  and  Sheridan 
began  again. 

"Mrs.  Butt,  I'm  going  away.  I'm — I'm — 
changed.     Is  she  seriously  ill?" 

"If  her  husband  were  to  return  she  would 
be  well  soon,  Mr.  Sheridan.  Her  constitution  is 
splendid,  but  she  has  had  a  hard  life.  If  you  are 
going  away,  take  my  best  wishes  with  you.  I 
know  you'll  do  well." 

She  was  silent  again.     Sheridan  also. 

vShe  walked  away,  and  she  heard  him  go  out  of 
the  gate. 

Somehow  she  felt  inclined  to  weep,  as  though 
sorrow  was  heaped  upon  sorrow,  but  she  had  Silvia 
to  think  of,  and  she  went  quickly  into  the  house. 

Sheridan,  outside  the  gates  of  Ari-wa-kis,  seeing 
the  beauty  of  the  evening,  breathed  his  first  prayer. 


CHAPTER  LIII 

PARADISE 

SILVIA  was  better  the  third  morning,  and  told 
Anne  that  she  would  get  up  and  go  down 
stairs. 

A  shower  had  fallen  about  daybreak,  setting  the 
lake  to  dancing  with  the  drops  that  dazzled  its  sur- 
face, but  it  had  been  swept  away  with  a  south 
wind.  The  day  had  grown  calm,  and  the  red- 
leaved  maple  tree,  having  scattered  the  heavy 
drops,  grew  motionless  again,  only  its  boughs 
were  more  easily  seen,  for  the  leaves  strewed  the 
porch. 

Silvia  was  shaken  with  the  fever,  pale  and  thin, 

but  once  more  herself;  so  Anne  threw  open  the 

windows  in  the  big  sitting-room,  dusted  the  desk 

once  belonging  to  Silvester  Lake,  and  prepared  the 

place  for  habitation.     It  took  the  sunny  side  of 

380 


Paradise  3Sl 

the  house.  She  did  the  work  very  slowly,  for 
often  the  enticing  view  of  the  lake,  the  sheeny 
moving  light,  attracted  her  to  the  big  windows. 

She  was  startled  to  see  Silvia  in  the  doorway. 

"Already,"  said  Anne. 

Silvia  came  farther  into  the  room,  looking  at  her 
father's  desk. 

"I  ain't  been  here  since  I  left  home,"  she  said. 
1 '  Have  you  heard  any  news  ? ' ' 

"No  one  has  been  over  yet — I'm  expecting  them 
any  time. 

"Mrs.  Butt,  I  feel  kinder  restless — I  wish  they'd 
come  from  Alamanca!" 

"I  hear  someone  now!"  said  Anne. 

She  went  out  into  the  kitchen,  and  ran  to  the 
door,  Silvia  following  her.  She  saw  that  the  yard 
gate  was  wide  open,  that  Bill  Din  was  standing  by 
the  horse's  head,  holding  the  impatient  Gin-fly, 
while  Louis  Buttress  was  within  the  yard. 

Anne  went  out  to  meet  the  hunter.  Silvia  stood 
under  the  tree,  waiting  for  him. 

"Mr.  Buttress,"  said  Mrs.  Butt,  "your  wife  has 


382  The  Hunter 

been  ill,  but  she  is  better  now  that  she  sees  you." 

Anne  went  forward  to  meet  Bill  and  the  hunter 
came  up  to  the  porch,  and  stopped  under  the  fiery 
maple  to  meet  his  wife.  They  were  facing  one 
another  and  not  a  word  was  spoken  by  either  of 
them. 

They  could  hear  Bill  and  Anne  talking  eagerly, 
but  the  silence  that  bound  their  own  hearts  could 
not  be  broken. 

Presently  a  leaf  fell  on  to  Silvia's  hair  and  Louis 
took  it  off  with  a  trembling  hand,  and  with  Silvia 
gripping  his  right  hand  they  went  into  the  sitting- 
room  together. 

Buttress  shut  the  door. 

Silvia  began  to  cry  and  this  gave  Louis  his  voice 
again. 

"Silvia,"  he  said,  "I've  broken  the  spell  and 
come  to  you;  but  then  I've  been  near  death  so  that 
made  it  obedient  to  the  words  in  your  letter." 

"I  wanted  you  to  come,  Louis,'  said  Silvia. 
"I  was  tired  of  my  own  word. " 

'I've  thought  it  all  out,  while  I  lay  ill,  Silvia, 


Paradise  383 

and  I  ask  you  to  forgive  me  for  bein'  so  hard  and 

misunderstandin\      If  you  was  true  to  the  best 

that  was  within  you,  tellin'  you  to  trust  to  men, 

and  if,  in  the  doin'  of  it,  you  made  your  mistakes — 

who  was  I  to  judge  you  when  you  was  tryin'  your 

best  to  get  to  the  straight  side  of  things?     I  was 

no  fit  judge,  and  I  had  a  lot  to  think  of  as  I  lay  there 

in  the  darkness  after  I  came  to.     Yet  I  judged  you 

from   my   feelin's    as  a  man,  knowin'  nothin'  of 

what  you,  as  a  woman,  had  gone  through.     May 

be,  Silvia,  'taint  exactly  men's  fault  that  so  little's 

known  of  what  women  come  through — 'tain't  yours, 

neither — 'tis  certain  sure  you  was  the  woman  for 

me,  doing  your  best  to  tell  me.     My  belief  in  you 

is  perfect.     That's  true,  Silvia.     God  knows  we're 

human  and  faulty,  but  you've  won  my  belief  out 

of  the  troubles  you've  come  through  to  get  to  me. 

I'll  not  speak  of  what  you  are  to  me  for  yourself. " 
Louis,  come  to  the  windows,  where  we  can  see 

Ari-wa-kis. " 

Silvia  looked  into  Louis's  face,   and  saw  how 

deeply  the  illness  had  entered  into  his  physical 


384  The  Hunter 

life,  and  she  saw  the  grey  hairs  about  the  temple, 
where  the  blow  had  fallen  from  the  hands  of  the 
merciless  enemy. 

"Louis, "  she  said,  "we're  speakin'  to  each  other 
from  our  inmost  souls.  When  I  was  a  bit  of  a  kid 
playin'  about  the  land,  with  nothin'  but  my  daddy 
to  talk  to,  and  sometimes  you  to  watch — you — 
with  your  wanderin'  ways  across  the  lake — I  was 
happy  as  the  day  was  long !  I  learned  lots  of  good 
things  out  of  the  silence  and  the  land,  and  nothin' 
I  heard  hurt  me.  And  then  I  began  to  have  some 
thoughts  to  myself,  as  each  year  I  grew.  I  seen 
the  spring  bring  the  lambs  and  the  calves — then  I 
seen  chickens  and  children  and  I  sure  got  some 
lovely  thoughts.  I  said  to  my  dad  once,  "God 
gives  little  kids  to  every  thin'  that's  grown-up. 
I  bet  it's  to  keep  them  out  of  mischief — and  good 
and  busy. ' '  And  my  dear  old  daddy  he  said  to  me, 
"That's  real  good  sense,  Silvia,  and  the  truth  from 
one  side."  I  was  pleased  when  he  said  it;  I  felt 
I  was  growin'  up,  and  gittin'  clever  and  wise!  I 
said  it  to  someone  else  one  day,  and  they  kinder 


Paradise  385 

sniggered — it  maddened  me — 'twas  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  seen  the  world  with  a  shade  on  it. 
I  stopped  playin'  and  I  cried  a  bit,  and  wondered 
more.  Then  a  beautiful  voice  within  me  said, 
very  quiet  and  low  like  I  was  in  church,  "  'Tain't 
God's  way!"  So  I  set  to  work  to  think  more  to 
myself,  and  I  got  happy  again,  and  settled  it  was 
just  lovely  to  consider  that  God  made  man  and 
woman  to  be  together,  and  they,  if  they  were  good, 
could  have  the  glory  of  children.  Then  there  was 
a  day  when  that  idea  got  broken  up  and  I  said  to 
myself,  "I  ain't  a  goin'  to  ask  these  mean  grown- 
up people  that  snigger.  I'll  die  unknowin'  before 
I'll  do  it."  So  there  I  grew  up  without  knowin' 
the  things  I  ought  to  know.  Do  you  blame  me, 
Louis?  Would  you  like  to  get  God's  laws  told  to 
you,  by  the  people  who  had  no  pride  in  them  ? 
I  never  asked  anythin'  again.  I'd  had  enough. 
I  felt  I'd  rather  die  of  mistakes  than  learn  it  their 
way. " 

"I'm  with  you,  Silvia." 

"I  knew  it  when  I  was  a  kid  on  the  other  bank 


25 


386  The  Hunter 

of  Ari-wa-kis.  You  gave  me  peace  when  I  looked 
at  you,  even  after  I  started  to  make  mistakes.  It 
got  to  be  a  prayer  with  me,  to  hold  to  this  feelin' 
of  beauty  about  wThy  we  was  made  different  from 
each  other  and  how  it  was  our  part  of  God.  I 
can't  tell  you  how  it  came  to  be  a  prayer,  but  it 
grew  out  of  the  silence,  and  I  wanted  to  make 
sure  that  the  deep,  deep  voice  was  the  real  one! 
So  I  was  a'watchin'  for  a  man,  watchin'  with  my 
soul  dependin'  on  it,  instead  of  believin'  and  waitin* 
on  God  to  show  me!  That's  how  I  started  goin' 
with  the  boys.  Yet  there  was  no  fire  in  them,  no 
love  of  God's  works.  I  wanted  the  man  whose  soul 
would  rage  when  God's  laws  were  mocked  in  either 
word  or  action.  Creation  ain't  a  crumpled  leaf 
turned  down,  to  be  hidden  and  despised!  I 
wanted  the  man  who  thought  it  was  a  perfect  law, 
because  it  was  the  law  that  created  the  best  thing 
on  earth — souls.  And  then,  Louis,  out  of  the 
silence  of  Ari-wa-kis,  North  Bank  spoke  to  South 
Bank!  You  were  close  by  all  the  time.  You 
were  there,  feelin'  it  perfect!" 


Paradise  387 

"It  was  God,  Silvia." 
"Don't  I  know  it!     You  was  my  answer." 
1 '  Silvia,  paradise,  ain't  it  ? " 
They  put  their  arms  about  each  other,   with 
kisses  of  love,  that  were  full  of  life  and  joy. 


The  Safety  Curtain 

And  Other  Stories 

By 

Ethel  M.  Dell 

Author  of    "The  Way  of  an  Eagle,"   "The  Knave  of 

Diamonds,"  "The  Rocks  of  Valpre,"  "The 

Keeper  of  the  Door,"  "Bars  of 

Iron,"  etc. 

12°.     Frontispiece  by  A.  I.  Keller 
$1.50  net.     By  mail,  $1.60 

Striking  and  forceful  as  have  been  all  the 
stories  of  Ethel  M.  Dell,  few  have  possessed 
as  much  strength  and  charm  as  these.  From 
the  moment  when  the  heroine  leaps  from  the 
burning  stage  into  the  protection  of  a  stranger's 
outstretched  arms,  to  the  time  when  the  latter 
stands  a  bulwark  between  her  and  a  remorse- 
less pursuer  bent  on  again  enslaving  her,  love 
is  the  safety  curtain  that  shuts  out  the  perils 
that  threaten  to  overwhelm.  Not  less  interest- 
ing are  the  other  four  long  stories  of  the  vol- 
ume, running  in  some  cases  to  a  length  of 
more  than  one  hundred  pages. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


Unconquered 

By  Maud  Diver 

Author  of  "Captain  Desmond,  V.C.,"  "  Desmond's 
Daughter/*  «  The  Great  Amulet,"  etc. 


12°.     Color  Frontispiece,  $1.50  net 
By  mail  $1.60 


In  this  book,  Maud  Diver  proves  that  she 
needs  no  Indian  background  against  which  to 
work  a  powerful  and  emotional  drama.  This 
novel  is  called  by  the  author,  "  an  episode  of 
1914,"  and  is  the  story  of  a  vigorous  out- 
of-doors  man  who,  severely  wounded,  is 
brought  home  in  the  early  days  of  the  war, 
and  of  the  girl  who  is  repelled  by  the 
physical  imperfections  of  her  one-time  hand- 
some and  sturdy  lover.  The  other  sort  of 
girl  is  also  in  this  tale,  the  slacker  and  the 
pacifist.  It  is  a  strong  story,  admirably  told 
by  a  master  novelist. 


G,  P*  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


The 
Way  of  the  Winepress 

By   W.  Riley 

Author  of  " Netherleigh,"  etc. 


f2°.    Ornamental  Wrapper,  $1.50  net 
By  mail  $1.60 


This  story,  by  the  clever  author  of 
"  Windyridge,"  "  Netherleigh,"  etc., 
tells  of  Yorkshire  mill  life,  and  of  the 
disaster  that  befalls  a  well-to-do  spinner 
whose  conservatism  has  blinded  him 
to  the  signs  of  change  everywhere 
around  him.  The  author's  skill  at 
portraiture  is  again  displayed  in  the 
homely  scenes  among  the  villagers. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


The  White  Ladies  of 
Worcester 


Florence  L.  Barclay 

Author  of  "  The  Rosary,"  "  The  Mistress  of  Shenstone," 
"  The  Following  of  the  Star,"  etc. 

12°.     Color  Frontispiece.     Price,  $1.50 
By  mail,  $1.60 

The  White  Ladies  of  Worcester,  by  the 
author  of  The  Rosary,  is  a  romance  of 
the  twelfth  century.  The  heroine,  be- 
lieving she  has  lost  her  betrothed  lover, 
either  through  unfaithfulness  or  death 
while  he  is  absent  on  a  Crusade,  enters 
a  nunnery.  After  she  has  taken  this 
step  the  hero  returns.  From  this  inter- 
esting situation  the  author  develops  a 
novel  that  has  great  charm  as  well  as 
decided  power. 

The  scenes  of  the  story  are  the  Nun- 
nery of  the  White  Ladies  at  Winston, 
the  crypt  and  precincts  of  Worcester 
Cathedral,  the  Bishop's  Palace  at  Wor- 
cester, Warwick  Castle,  and  Castle 
Norelle  in  Cumberland. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 
New  York  London 


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